


Pathing

by Prinscar



Series: Path to Victory [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU!Snape, Dark Severus Snape, Dark!Snape, Gen, Humour, Marauders, OP!Snape, Overpowered, Path to Victory, Prisoner of Azkaban, Revenge, i just need time and inspiration and some skill ahah, this work is not abandoned!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:40:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24840952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinscar/pseuds/Prinscar
Summary: The year of 1993 is a bad year for Severus Snape. With Potter in harm's way, the convicted murderer Black escaped, the dangerous Lupin back in Hogwarts and Dumbledore purposefully oblivious to his concerns, Severus starts to crack under the pressure early on. It is such a special year that the desperate Potions Master is given by Fate a superpower like no others: the Path to Victory.Thanks to a certain magical symbiote, he gains the power to achieve anything the Universe allows, as long as he asks the right question.But as everyone knows, Severus Snape is not a nice man. Plagued by grudges, wounds and regrets, how can this man handle such power without developing a maddening God Complex?
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall/Severus Snape, Remus Lupin/Severus Snape, Sirius Black/Severus Snape
Series: Path to Victory [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796914
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40





	1. Boon and Bane

"DO YOU DEEM THIS ACCEPTABLE?! DO YOU THINK IT'S NORMAL FOR A PROFESSOR TO ENCOURAGE HIS STUDENTS TO LAUGH AT ME?! I'M THEIR POTIONS TEACHER, IF THEY MELT THEIR FACES OFF BECAUSE THEY DON'T RESPECT MY AUTHORITY ANYMORE, YOU'LL ONLY HAVE YOURSELF TO BLAME!"

Dumbledore merely shook the head, hiding a little smile under silver strands of hair.

"AND WHO'S TALKING ABOUT LEAVING THINGS INTO THE PAST!? ARE YOU BOTH BLOODY KIDDING ME?! CAN'T YOU SEE HE'S FAKING RECONCILIATION?! YOU BOTH EXPECT ME TO FORGIVE HIM BUT YOU ALLOW THIS?! WHAT FUCKING HYPOCRISY IS THIS?! DON'T EVER EXPECT -"

"Severus!"

Dumbledore had raised his voice. The Potions Master froze, fuming and frothing under rage. As revolted his employee could be, as angry he could come to the Headmaster's Office to vent about his daily frustrations, Severus Snape was a man who put hierarchy into the realm of the sacred. If one of his masters told him to behave one particular way, he wouldn't complain, rather proceed. Well, Snape was a traitor to the Dark Lord and Dumbledore's orders held easy loopholes, yet he would still respect their will. He was known as loyal for a reason; loyalty, true or illusory, was what kept him alive. In a sense, it was this kind of obedience he expected from his students.

Obedience that was largely disputed now that the Tale of the Boggart Snape had reached everyone's ear, since the second day of class, both to the school's great pleasure and Snape's utter wrath.

"Now you cannot blame Professor Lupin to do his job. It wasn't Longbottom's fault that his Boggart was you - rather, I would think it remains entirely on you. The despise you hold against this student is quite legendary, well, only second place to Harry..."

"The boy is a menace Headmaster!" Snape protested. "He won't listen. What's complicated in listening to instructions and apply them? It's as if he's doing it on purpose. This boy should just quit my class."

The Potions Master was driven crazy by the memories of a Shrinking Solution that couldn't turn orange unless botched purposefully.

"Not everybody has your talent in Potionery, Severus."

"Well of course, it'd be too great to have students senseful enough to follow simple instructions... I wouldn't be surprised if cooking was a new to them, the spoiled children..."

"Students are not soldiers in the military Severus."

Snape scoffed. "I don't expect my level for most of them, but I hold the right to have high standards in my class. I do not tolerate leniency. Longbottom hasn't made any progress, maybe he thinks it's funny to be the clown in my class, endangering my students, including himself."

"Severus..."

"So maybe if he realizes that the preparation of a potion is crucial to one's survival, he'd pay more attention. A war is coming, he has to be prepared. I cannot see how somebody can be so utterly incompetent... My students always left with exceptional results, Headmaster, marks higher than the average, as it's to be expected from _the best magical school in the world_. I arranged my classes to be accessible for anybody who works seriously. My tests are achievable thanks to the modifications to the book instructions I give them - you couldn't find that anywhere else. Students should be lucky they have me as a professor, rather than those frauds in the other schools, let alone that slug fool I replaced... I refuse to have Longbottom ruin my well-deserved reputation."

"Severus."

"Don't you think so, Headmaster? Haven't you told your employees that my behaviour was in line because it always did good to have a serious, skillful teacher with high expectations? A professor with an iron fist?"

"You've got the iron fist but you forget to wear the velvet glove."

It almost rendered the employee irate. It failed to instead. Severus snapped from his gesticulations of outrage. His arms slumped, face shut down, and with a resolute voice, he asked: "Are you not going to do anything about it? It's not right for me to instill discipline in a student from whom I still expect passable results, but when Lupin humiliates me it's also my fault?"

The newspaper held in the Headmaster's hands fell on the polished desk. Behind half-moon glasses, the electric blue eyes twinkled mischievously.

"Why must you take this as humiliation Severus? If you saw me dressed in Augusta's clothes, surely you would laugh the same."

Snape shivered at the thought. Albus smiled with a playful wink.

"Imagine Harry dressed like this... or Neville. Any student you loath. Lupin as well! Or Minerva - don't you see a resemblance?"

"Headmaster, this humiliating, unnecessary prank fell on _me_. I can't laugh at something that sadly never happened to others."

Albus sighed. It was only Sunday night, two days after the incident. Severus Snape was a very strong man, but at moments like this, it seemed the eccentric professor had been built upon the mentality of a child. Many times a strange immaturity radiated from Severus, during those many nights at the Headmaster's Office when he couldn't hold on the rage Harry, Neville, Heather Will, the Weasley twins and Marcus Flint inspired.

In this instance, Albus couldn't see anything else than a man who couldn't accept auto-derision. If he had laughed the event off - better even, played with the idea of dressing like the Augusta Grannie, people would have forgotten it sooner. Albus decided to one day show the example - in other words dressing like Augusta. Maybe it would teach the Potions Master to relativise?

Maybe the scars of humiliation would cease to hurt in his spy...

"Headmaster" Snape added, "Lupin is a menace. He threatens my authority and range the students to his side. You cannot know - what if he remained loyal to Black like the coward he always was? If the students are not careful, who knows what he could do - luring the students away to eat them like he once tried to - "

"Severus, that's enough."

The man in black tightened his narrow lips. Might as well seal his mouth shut, seeing how Dumbledore once again - again! - dismissed his concerns, ignored his advice.

Always thinking that Lupin, Black, Potter and Pettigrew were in the right, silencing Snape just like this awful night - again this year Snape felt as if time repeated itself. And look where Dumbledore's naivety had led: Black uncovering his thirst for murder, Pettigrew dead from foolish weakness, Potter arrogant and dead along with - the one he'd married to protect -

"Very well. _Very well_ , Headmaster. If that's how things ought to be... I'll be in my quarters."

Severus spun, black robes billowing around the ankles. He opened the door stiffly, closing it behind with slightly too much vehemence.

Snape was brooding bitterly.

"Well, maybe he'd be palatable with a witch's dress on his tight little arse - maybe then Potions would be interesting."

"Isn't that what he asked for anyway? So sad I wasn't there or I would have taken the Boggart by his hair and pulled him around like I always wished to -"

The students were petrified to know Snape was right behind them. 100 points were retrieved from Hufflepuff.

Those weren't the only sexual jokes that'd come. Like before, like those times... people would joke about his genitals, the clothes his mother gave him, his long greasy hair and his ugliness. It was easy to ridicule Snape.

He had promised himself it wouldn't happen again, but always, _always_ , Dumbledore was there to deny Snape's dignity. Snape's worth went _after_ everybody else's. Wasn't that what he'd clearly taught him by the tender age of 15?

The Potions Master hadn't realized in his spiteful temper that he had already crashed onto the bed. The heavy blankets were soft, full. It was a delight to bury the face halfway in. However the spy couldn't linger there. As much as he wanted to sleep under forced Occlumency and start a new day with a new plan for revenge, he had to get up. After all, by an ironic twist of fate, he was the one brewing the Wolfsbane to the very "colleague" who'd humiliated him earlier this day. As much as he sought for the cowardly animal to suffer the transformation, he wouldn't risk anybody's life with forgetting to brew the potion. He wouldn't even let Lupin forget to drink it - you never knew if he'd one day try to transform and bite a student for fun. Like Black, the facade of the murderer that everybody fell for. Snape could only find retribution in the sickening ingredients he knew made the potion a pain to swallow.

Snape wished he wouldn't feel so much desperate rage.

And so for the night that followed, the Potions Master brewed, silently, fuming, boiling, thick bubbles meeting the surface only to explode and fall back, surrounded by the thick circular walls of the metallic cauldron. Brewing time was Severus' favourite moment. He found a strange connection with potion brewing. Mastering the preparation, waiting for the new substance to reach a state only to disturb it again, with a swirl of a ladle or the addition of an ingredient. It was control.

He had found that not only Muggles but also many of his students, whatever origins, dissociated art and science. In the Wizarding World, contrary to the Muggle one, the science was subtle, the art exact. A proper realm to itself, reverse and mirror of the common world. He never expected the students to understand what it meant to enter the Inverse, the Other Side. It was foolish to think magic was a convoluted art, foolish to think magic was reigned by the same laws than the usual...

It was known that Potions and Poetry went along very well. Ingredients worked under precise metaphors and delightful irony.

Like the irony that - the potion started to boil incorrectly and Snape spent the rest of the night watching over it just in case. He didn't get a single hour of sleep until the early hours of dawn.

A new day to start.

**(** **ง** **'̀-'́)** **ง**

When Severus Snape entered the Great Hall to eat breakfast at 7:15 three days later, the colleagues at the table ignored him diligently. The man was wearing heavy bags of insomnia under a stare that'd usually belong to someone about to faint; he had a stern face closed with thin lips, oily dishevelled hair that shone too brightly, dirty with the deposits of potion fumes. You might have thought that somebody would have shown concern, that they'd notice his apparent distraught. But nobody looked for the signs unless when partaking pleasure in his pain, and if a benevolent soul deigned to spot them, they'd ignore it soon after. Sprout behaved as expected. She guessed at the horrible sight of his dark colleague that he was - pathetically - upset from Lupin's earlier success. McGonagall smirked, proud and satisfied, no doubt waiting for a moment to tease her friendly rival. Dumbledore wasn't any different. The other professors, Snape didn't try to know their reactions. Not that they'd take particular care of his arrival. He sat at his usual place at the far end of the Head Table, tremors of exhaustion shaking the coffee swirling around the cup.

Nobody talked to him.

On the contrary, everyone seemed to make the greatest effort to talk the loudest with the bloody werewolf, as if trying to get Snape's attention and remind him that, yes, Lupin had succeeded in humiliating him without paying for it, without any sign that karma would bite back in the future. He had done something to Snape that if Snape had done, everybody would reproach - and not only that, but he was only gaining praise and support as supplement.

Oh yes, Lupin was mild, Lupin was sweet, Lupin made him _vomit_ , the dangerous hypocrite. Snape thought the metaphor very clear: Lupin's form as a werewolf showed who he truly was, a bloodthirsty monster at heart.

Snape'd be damned if he let any student throw themselves in harm's way or, as the proverbial saying went under Lucius' roof since the trip to Paris, _se jeter dans la gueule du loup_. At that thought, his gaze couldn't stop from drifting to that certain mess of raven hair on the Gryffindor table.

The man was known to have a harsh life. He considered himself deeply unlucky, contrary to the boy he protected, as though all his luck was sucked out to help the Potters instead (unless when it'd be convenient for the ex-Death Eater). He didn't like to wallow in self-pity, oh no; although at the same time, he couldn't help but sour as the hours ticked by. The day that followed was hell. He often caught the students with the shadow of a smirk and a mocking gaze. Such attitude sent his patience flying through the roof too soon. For safety and discipline's sake, he decided essays were in order. No brewing for a week, or the students might murmur taunts on his back, not to mention they'd risk a trip to the Infirmary for carelessness in their experiments. The hours of the afternoon - as well as those of the morning! - became long hours of tests, the atmosphere thick with tense silence. Detentions were served, points were lost, and by the time Snape found himself back to the Head Table for dinner, Professor Flitwick was squeaking protests in defense of his "studious" Eagles. He didn't give him half a mind. He focused instead of maintaining a respectable heart rate. The werewolf's secretive stare made his arm hair raise and his neck prickle.

Snape had done a mistake however. After a quick pause in the dungeons office where he let the satchel of tests slide and hit onto the stone floor, a quick check over the Wolfsbane, and curfew surveillance from 10 pm to 4 in the morning, he slumped on his favourite chair by the desk only to find that hundreds on parchments were waiting for correction. Enough to make a common teacher weep.

A body shouldn't function on a regime of three hours of sleep in three stressful days.

It was only Wednesday, and Severus knew with certainty that he hated his life... and that life had it right back at him.

To be honest, Snape'd had the habit of thinking that if he suffered enough - by his own wand - then he'd seal a pact for the rest of the week not to suffer as much. And while his blood hadn't been the price, he'd one day figure, in retrospect, that maybe the amount of shite he'd lived until then was enough to conjure something that changed his life.

**〷** **●** **‿** **●** **〷**

This morning, Snape woke up with a dreadful headache. The veins at the temples were bulging under the pressure. He batted his hands against the nightstand, the blankets, under the pillow. He resorted to an Accio to snatch the wand back. Against the light of the Lumos, his eyes refused to open, as though sealed shut by the daily encrusted tears. Severus yawned and rubbed them. It didn't calm the headache one bit... as well as the odd sensation of a brain at the brink of caving against the skull. Was it the potion fumes of the previous day, was it the accumulation of missed sleeping hours...

He jostled to a start. The Wolfsbane! His classes! When he summoned his mother's old watch, it was 8:23. Clearly the tight schedule was impending him. It was glorious, Snape thought with sarcasm, how not sleeping made you less productive in your work and got you late, whereas answering your bodily needs made you lose even more hours. There was no way to get out of this vicious circle, except to wasting his whole weekend correcting the tests, or making the students brew, and that... wouldn't be possible for a lot of them.

His bare feet shifted to press against the rough carpet of the bedroom. First he had to run to check on the potion. It was okay, softly simmering away. Then he had to pad to the loo. He was then allowed to stretch his sore muscles. There was no use trying to rush on the essays: classes started at 9, there wasn't enough time. Slipping an arm in the sleeve of a tight woollen black shirt, he pondered the reaction of his colleagues at his absence during breakfast. But his mind was too foggy to care about that... Clothes were put on, potions were drunk for the day, a shelf slid aside at the pull of a book; the satchel was filled, shoes on his feet and there he was leaving the room, off to the dungeon corridors.

Thus the day started with the 6th year NEWT students.

The students were left with a revision of the ingredients they'd use for the lesson, instructions on the board, a careful warning, and finally Snape, confident in his experienced pupils, sat on a stool, rummaging through the pile of parchments. One of them was unrolled on the wood of the desk, pinned down, smoothed out. The man took a quill, dipped it in red ink, wiped the excess against the jar, placed it on top of the paper and sighed.

An odd thought traversed his mind, one that hadn't had the opportunity to shape itself for many years.

_I don't want to correct them._

...

Severus Snape wasn't lazy. He'd had similar moments of fighting the urge to discard a huge load of work. Yet he had always won over it... well, until then.

His quill found itself frozen over the parchment, dripping red ink at a steady pace, staining the paper.

 _Come on!_ he thought, _Go on and start it!_ He feared what the students could think. It was as though his mind had completely left his body and there he was, staring blankly at a paper. A NEWT girl lifted her eyebrows at this sight; for her Potions Master to remain immobile over a copy, either the work was revolutionary, or it was an utter festival of nonsense, which was more likely.

The one who wrote the essay was going to find such a red mess on it... and the professor would be furious.

 _Damn it, why can't I even focus on what's written?_ He shook. _What must I do to mark the tests, if I can't even lay my quill on it?_

Three steps.

The quill was set back on the desk, hands made a pattern on the pile of parchments, a charm was casted. Finally the Professor regained his focus.

Nobody had seen what happened, but the busy class surely heard what was said after: "Holy shit."

Severus Snape didn't lift the eyes to notice how everybody had turned their heads at the usually controlled man, gobsmacked. Not that the man hadn't cursed among his NEWT students, but to do it without restrain?

The Potions Master was grasping parchments, opening them, scanning them and throwing them aside frantically. It was a sight! He wore an incredulous expression that was each paper only reinforced. And on each of them, glittered a fresh red letter with a circle.

"Professor?"

Severus startled.

"Miss Asteria?"

"Are you alright?"

It was only that that he looked around the classroom to find every pair of eyes on him. He frowned and regained a controlled posture.

"Yes I am. Not that I would ask your help if I wasn't..." he answered, setting the parchments back on the desk with calm. "Did I ask you all to stop? You have one hour and thirty minutes to get the potion done and your essay completed. Go back to work."

That which they promptly executed.

**~(˘** **▾** **˘)~**

The spy had to admit that he had exaggerated at the beginning of the week. It would be untrue to say everybody hated him. The Ravenclaws were mostly thankful for his lessons. A part of the Hufflepuffs was curious about his attitude, but didn't say much. The Slytherins appreciated him, of course, and not because all of them were children of Death Eaters... The Gryffindors disliked him in general. The elder Weasleys were a noticeable exception though. Bilius had been competent, studious, eager, quite pleasurable to teach (even though at the time, he had loathed the idea of Gryffindors that deserved congratulations). Charles had gone to work with the Dragons, for a reason: he excelled far more into sports than in studies. The Charles-era had been a sweet time, the student giving him quite a lot of opportunities to retrieve points for missing homework. Percival Weasley was a little pretentious, and he wondered why he hadn't been Sorted to Slytherin, seeing how he was almost obsessed with studies and had a liking for leadership. Snape didn't like him much, but at least he gave him no surprise.

The Weasley twins had been a catastrophe. However, by the time Snape had met them, he was already trained in the discipline of difficult students. The twins had paid HARD for their shenanigans. As the saying went: "Don't mess with Snape, he can become nasty".

He was proud of it. Not even Minerva had managed to keep them in line like him. There would be no new generations of... "pranksters".

The Professor strolled past the ginger tuft that belonged to a Retard Weasley and climbed the platform to the Head Table.

No, the real moment the Gryffindors had started to _hate_ him had started with the arrival of the Golden Boy.

The epitome of dislike had been achieved early in the first year, as everybody had thought he's be ready to kill a student just to win the Quidditch Cup, there, in plain sight, when in reality it was only the string of his salving magic that'd attached the boy's hand to his broom, 50 meters away from death; followed by his suspicious take of the referee position.

He snarled at the memory of the disastrous, humiliating Hufflepuff match. It still gave him acid.

And then the days he had to surreptitiously check on the boy in case the dangerous hypocrite that was Quirell would try and attack Potter... His leg had taken ages to heal, and he'd had to check on the Quidditch book, that could have been tampered with Dark Magic (oh well... he had to admit it'd been also a good opportunity to piss off the Potter offspring).

So not only had the students started to mistrust him deeply, but his colleagues had left him alone at the staff room, except for a stern Minerva giving him the evil eye.

As though he had neither brains nor honour...

The adults of the school had soon realized how wrong they'd been. Quirell gone, they'd achieved a truce. And when the insufferable pretentious Ravenclaw named Lockhart had come to usurp the role of Defence teacher - abusing his position for personal profit - everybody had united against the student they'd all had taught a few years earlier. Snape had been wholly included in the opposition... praised for knocking off the worthless peacock during the Duel Club. Let the fool absorb the curse, like the dozens of teachers had since Snape's first year at Hogwarts...

And now, would you look at that... A new year when Snape would be ostracized by another fragile-looking hypocrite... One that was more dangerous than a possessed Quirell this time.

He had to protect them all. The students were too immature, for most of them, too easily fooled by sweet looks, kind words, politeness. Snape knew there were children among all Houses, and particularly the Slytherins, that recognized the truth. Pupils who looked into his black eyes and whispered, silently: _I know you_. To which Snape's face narrowed, already engaged in torments during the following night. Students who knew what it was like to be Snape and why he was this way, even though he wished they didn't. Students that came to him so they could share a terrible secret.

This dozen of students knew that if Snape didn't trust somebody like Lupin, then there had to be a reason. By the look of loathing he sent his way, they'd know it wasn't a mere matter of lusting after the Defence post, but that the professor occupying it was a problem himself.

Despite this, Severus knew that was not enough, and he feared that one of the oblivious dunderheads would fall into the trap, under Dumbledore's nose. The target most at risk being Harry Potter, that went without saying.

He noticed movement at the vicinity of his vision. Minerva, he noticed, had been calling him for the last 30 seconds. Detaching his gaze from the werewolf, he asked her what she wanted.

"I really wish you would put your animosity aside, Severus..." She sighed. "It's been 10 years. No matter what Remus' friends have done to you, surely you can grow up. It was nothing."

Yeah.

Yeah of course it was nothing.

If it was Snape, it was nothing.

It had been years he hadn't felt resentment towards his former Transfiguration teacher. He had become close to her. They had the same teaching style, after all. If she was the good cop, he was the 'bad' one.

Minerva had been among the few chosen ones benefiting Snape's forgiveness, along with the other Professors and Dumbledore.

Yet forgiving was not forgetting. He'd never forget what it was like. Especially when Lupin was back, Black was running free, and Potter's spawn probably looking for ways to put himself in more danger.

"You are an adult, for Merlin's sake! I do not see why you persist that way."

He snarled at her.

Minerva looked furious. "Well, if that's what you want, Snape..."

She shifted in her seat, looking away, speaking with Septima Vector, the Arithmancy Professor.

Lupin had heard everything, with those werewolf senses of his, but of course he was faking innocence.

Snape _burned_ with the desire to hurt him, to make him pay for the humiliation that ought to ruin his days at Hogwarts this year.

Right then, he wasn't coherent enough to notice what was happening. He only looked into the meal of 1 pm (he had class in half an hour), the light of the sun shining on the empty plate of polished ceramic. He saw a distorted reflection of himself there, and he thought: _Look how little it took for your friend to abandon you again. Proud, and contemptuous, deliberately misunderstanding... As soon as one of them is there, everybody looks up to them, and everybody seek to humiliate you again..._

His head pounded with the intrusive negative thoughts.

_You're jealous. Pathetic, isn't it?_

The screech of the fork against the ceramic woke him up from mulling over. There was a reason he'd always had a quirk for Occlumency: to shield himself from the inevitable self-loathing. He forced his hands to cup the bowl of salad (his stomach had shrunk), spooning tomatoes, slices bacon as well as cubes of cheese on the plate, wishing dearly, very dearly, that Lupin could be humiliated, however unlikely it would happen...

The Great Hall was silenced by the long fart that followed.

Several emotions swept over Snape's face, leaving as soon as they came, returning again. The students and the teachers, the ghosts and the portraits, all of them had frozen at the unmistakable sound. The spoon had clattered away as Snape's hand had jerked. Everybody was looking at the Head Table now.

Looking at...

The professor a few seats apart.

Sprout started to blush from the embarrassment. Not that the shade of her face was the strongest. Lupin was positively crimson.

 _What happened?_ Snape wanted to ask.

"Looks like no wolf is there to howl you back, Lupin," was what he blurted out instead.

Minerva jerked in his direction, horrified, accusation flashing in the eyes. What she was about to retort was drowned out, however, by the howling that erupted from the tables.

Snape felt almost guilty. He knew he'd done nothing... had he? He buried any compassion deep inside. No, what was stirring inside, was the prickling anxiety the laughing of the young provoked. He hated children laughing. He utterly loathed it. The pointed fingers, the teenagers clapping each other on the back, sliding down their chairs, rolling on the floor, the noisy assault - STOP IT - the hesitancy of some, the ecstasy of the rest, the loath, the humiliation, the shame - I _HATE_ IT -

"Excuse me. I'd rather smell something else than animal shite."

He left the table in a frenzy. He hadn't eaten anything, but it wasn't important. He wasn't in control of his movements. He wasn't aware that he was running, for all the stumbling he made in the way. His hands gripped and slid over the ancient walls, legs like jelly, robes tangling everywhere - hair in the face, and he had to go away, _away_...

What was happening?

At last the scorching sun blinded his vision, and everything was white-hot. He tripped again, hit a solid column, and was that the tree - _that_ tree? He was trapped in Hogwarts, he was - he'd _said_ that _time_ was _repeating_ _itself_... Air was barely reaching the lungs because his throat was so _tight_ , flames _cold_ and _hot_ all alike, surely sweating over the tight black shirt... Black blooming before him, a kaleidoscope of colours fluttering like fractals over it...

Thankfully no one saw how he collapsed under the water of the Lake, near the beach, near the trees, out of reach.

When his vision consolidated back and his heart slowed down to an acceptable rate, he focused on the ripples sent by the Giant Squid. The water was troubled. Black hair finally decided to bend under gravity and slid off his shoulders, tips creating hollow dots on the surface, opening narrow paths for the water to fill. Snape breathed fresh air that smelled like mashed grass and slippy algae. He concentrated on the minerals rocking on the gritting sand, how roughly good the grains pierced his palms. He was soaked to the shoes. And when at last, his brow ceased to create droplets of sweat, he sat on the heels and lifted the nose.

_Breathing..._

Severus hadn't expected that. He hadn't expected Lupin to... fart. He hadn't expected his wish to be granted so easily, instantaneously. He hadn't expected his own reaction at the laughing of the teens in the Great Hall. And there he was.

On the verge of... fainting. He didn't even know if there was a word for this. Syncope? Panic? Either way, he was angry.

He was angry at himself for having reacted that way. Why had he been so weak as to practically flee the Great Hall like that? Why had the giggling triggered him? Why hadn't he been able to Occlude that away?

Why hadn't he enjoyed the humiliation he'd asked for, instead of running to the Lake? If somebody had done this to him, they'd have stayed to witness every delectable bit of the moment. But when he was the one taking revenge, his body couldn't even let him savour the payback?! He'd been ready to torture people mere years ago, he loved getting his revenge, and the laughter of the pupils directed at those who disturbed his class had always been very welcome.

So what was different?

 _Oh, you know very well the answer..._ whispered a bodiless voice in his right ear.

For the third time this day, he had to shake himself, before he drifted too far.

Severus snarled. Probably everyone would accuse him of having spiked Lupin's food... he just knew it. When people didn't know why something had went bad, it was him, it was always Snape, the scapegoat. The lonely, oily, ugly one. Minerva hadn't been the exception. Everybody would think it was his way to take revenge. Maybe some pupils, like the trio Gryffindor Fools, would hate him for having done... nothing. And Dumbledore? What would the Headmaster do? Call him in his Office and berate him? Showing how _disgusted_ he was in Severus?

He sighed. What was done was done... and there were things he just hadn't the control over. It wasn't his fault Lupin had farted, just as it wasn't Lupin's that Longbottom's Boggart had been Snape (although Severus always wondered why he hadn't had the idea of using curtains to hide the students' fears from prying eyes...) So now the only thing to do, was to finish the day, continue the classes, and let things come.

The class.

Was to start in 4 minutes.

**ヽ** **(** **•** **‿** **•** **)** **ノ**

This evening, he checked the parchments back. Each of them had a mark printed on it. Not any mark either: as he read and analysed the essays' contents, he noticed that those deserving O's had their rightful O's, as well as the E's, etc. It was impressive. And most of all, Severus was left in a state of disbelief. How... how had this happened? He didn't remember correcting those. He hadn't read any of them, he was sure of it. They were the essays that he'd have given on Friday, which was tomorrow. Each of the marks was fair, accurate. The only problem was the lack of annotations. He could just picture that eccentric Ravenclaw girl coming at his desk and ask if anything could be done better...

The big red letters that had appeared on the parchments were quite useless then. It was essential that students learn from their mistakes. He still was late in his work, short of sleep. How was he supposed to annotate all essays piled on the desk of his office in a single night while resting enough? Severus scoffed. That and he still had the Wolfsba -

His fingers had just finished to swiftly brush over the parchments when he noticed more letters appearing on the essays.

"What the fu -"

The door opened.

"Miss Merlion..." he snapped, frustrated that someone had come at the wrong moment. "What are you doing here, entering without permission..."

The baritone voice died on a mild murmur. The girl entering the office in the dungeons was hiding her face, shaking violently, obviously very distressed. You had to be very distressed indeed to come and see the severe Potions Master. It was one of those secret emergencies...

Funny how he hadn't been the only one to panic this Thursday.

The man indicated a chair in front of his desk, ordering the student to sit and regain control. He perused inside the little leather sac suspended at the wide waistband engirdling the robes. An Accio after and he was presenting a flask of Calming Draught to the girl. She drank... dissolving into silent tears.

Severus came to a halt in front of the girl. Her arms were hugging her stomach. Collapsed on herself as she was, the man tucked a finger below her chin and lifted it slowly.

He didn't like it when students cried. He just wasn't sure how to react. Telling them to get control over themselves if they went into hysterics, he could do. Comforting their feelings... He didn't know.

He hadn't had much people comforting him for years. He hadn't wanted it anyway. He'd always rejected it.

So when came the time to take the role of a Professor, especially the Head of Slytherin House, he hadn't been very prepared to welcome snivelling noses to take care of.

He had been surprised at first. It was very obvious he disliked - sometimes hated - children in general. So why would students come over? Why would students of _other_ Houses come to him? Though the event was rare, he'd spent so much time cogitating over the problem, and eventually he'd reached a conclusion. It was really what he'd read between the lines of a Hufflpuff:

"You're not going to ask the others to comfort me... You're not going to force me to stay the night at the Infirmary... You won't force me to speak to those who annoyed me, trying to make each of us apologize... I don't want my class to know how I cried because of them. Or else it means that they won, and they will continue. You won't even try to tell me how everything's going to get better... Because you're honest, sir, and you never sugar-coat your words. I just want it got over with... and I can trust you love any chance to come at gangs effectively."

Each and every time, Snape was lost between maintaining this reputation, or betraying the student's trust. Often he chose the former solution. Indeed, nothing could be done for a student that was beaten at their home (he'd learned that first-hand). As for one that struggled because of their peers... if they came back to his office...

Well, the Headmaster wouldn't do anything, as was the case for most of the professors (that too he'd learned the hard way). It was common knowledge that adults weren't to be trusted. Students were right in not believing Snape able to coddle them.

He still advised the Badgers, Eagles and very rare Lions to harass their own respective Heads of House. If necessary, he'd slip some words of warning to his colleagues, an intense condemning glare shaming their eyes down. He could ignore the student in difficulty in class for the time being. There was a difference between forcing the rebellious to comply under his stare, and making a student cry into hysterics.

On the other hand, he loved to harass the unruly. He was a professional at it. A great opportunity to assign detentions and retrieve lots of points. Filch had thus become honoured to have him as a fellow accomplice to ruin students' experience of school. It came to no surprise that the most brutal of the pranksters came from the Gryffindors.

Oh, how brightly the polished trophies were shining.

Snape had also used these moments to adapt his detentions. Instead of letting the student boil over lines of text, he exhausted them over... physical community work. Any angry student could scrub the cauldrons very hard. As they returned to their dormitories however, not only were they too tired to plan another prank, but the sore muscles in the morning taught them very well how they better not repeat. The boys or girls at fault would reunite, weary in the morning, dispirited, and one of them would mutter: "It's not worth it."

It wasn't even a matter of not getting caught - Snape _always_ managed to spot them.

And if they weren't caught in the act? A simple scan of Legilimency over the student, a graze over their thoughts and a pull of the incriminating memories, were more than enough for Snape to know everything. He invented excuses the same way the students had invented them. He could be short of proof that the pupils were convicted, but it wasn't as if he could tell them he knew they were lying because he'd spied on their minds. Punishments were served, and the Potions Master was said to be unfair.

He owned them _nothing_.

His best successes remained in the crushing of the most turbulent clusters of the early 1980'ies. Like a hawk, he'd detected the weakest link of the clans; he'd cornered them, asked them to follow him to the Headmaster's office, dragging them by the arm if necessary, and there... Oh, and there, they _pissed_ over themselves. Twice quite literally.

"Please don't expel _meee_!" they'd cry loudly. "I'M _SORRY-Y-Y._..!"

It was exhilarating for the Potions Master to see them confess everything... accusing their friends, one after the other, with each splatter of hot tears... There, he'd recall, with a fast beating of the heart, how mere days ago, he'd seen them strutting in the corridors, a fist on the chest, exclaiming that they'd "never let those bloody professors get at them".

Their arrogance positively _petered out_.

Of course the Headmaster would refuse to expel them, but he'd always kept silent over Snape's choice of discipline. He knew his mistakes. He saw them each time Snape managed to break the harassing gangs. He felt them, every time the boy or girl was dismissed and he would try to avoid the accusing pair of glittering black eyes.

_This is what you should have done._

His colleagues could protest all they liked, they were forced to note how, soon after his arrival, order was back in Hogwarts. The leftovers of the Marauders were swept under the rug. Finally the teenagers could study in a non-threatening environment.

The bonus of not resorting to physical or life-threatening punishments made him all the more proud.

Snape had lived under war - at home, outside, and at Hogwarts. He knew how to resist, how to fight, how to break.

Comforting a student on the other hand?

And so sometimes, he found himself in front of a weeping one, silently waiting for them to speak.

"I..." the girl's voice wavered. She hid her rosy cringing lips that glistened with saliva, closing her eyelids in a wheezing sob. "It was my _Boggart_..."

Snape dropped his finger tentatively, patient.

The girl wiped her ruddy nose with the sleeve of her robes. She took a tight breath, won over the urge to explode into another sob... whispered: "It was during Prof... Professor Lupin's class... He was... teaching us about Boggarts and I... they all saw mine..."

At this point, the girl couldn't continue. But Snape already knew enough.

The girl had failed. Everybody would question why, _oh why_ was her Boggart her own uncle. The war had killed too many parents... Most of the time, the Boggart stayed mute. It was rare to hear a "Come on, let's do it, like the animals!" He'd seen the unspeakable flicker before their eyes, living it in flashes at the same time. He preferred to let the memories still. It was too private to temper with.

He sighed. The only good thing was that nobody had connected the dots.

That was a reason why he wanted to teach Defence himself. Too much could be told with the representation of someone's most urgent fear... or their deepest one.

Lupin was a fucking idiot.

**(** **︶︿︶** **)**

Thursday night saw Snape perusing over his memories of this last long day. The girl he'd somehow managed to comfort wouldn't be the only one. With the Dementors gliding around Hogwarts, a record would be broken, he was sure of it. The peak of adolescence dancing with the incarnation of depression...

He groaned.

The headache had only intensified under the Calming Draught he'd used for himself. At midnight, he'd started to have elements of his dreams infecting his senses. There was no other explanation. There was no reason he'd call those shifting shapes, simmering lines, fluorescent spots and droplets of the dungeons... hallucinations. Though the latter sound was starting to drive him crazy.

Getting up worsened even more the heavy migraine...

He padded to the tiled bathroom and splashed water across his face.

"You look really bad," the mirror told him. That same mirror was left in fragments as Snape left for his living room.

The bookshelf slid back into place. He crashed onto the comfy armchair. Head rolling on the top, he whined in pain.

Severus Occluded. Meditating had done wonders for the man - though the effects didn't last long into the day. You had to breathe through the nose, fill the bottom of your lungs, even your breathing... become conscious of your own body, squeeze a muscle, then release... Soon he was digging deep into the cushion.

The painful pounding of the head loosened, leaving him with a mere ring of metal around the skull.

Well, there was a way to force someone to sleep...

Merlin forbid anyone noticing the hand trailing up the leg covered by the nightcloth.

**(** **⊙** **︿** **⊙** **')**

The Potions classroom's door was shut behind the last students shuffling inside. Severus strode up to the board.

_That damn greasy git._

The voice took him by surprise and he slowly turned on his heel to stare where it had come from. The voice belonged to Harry Potter, damn of Severus' existence. Since none of the Gryffindors surrounding the boy made a move, he settled for cocking his head to the side.

He then wore a twisted smile.

He was rewarded when Potter gripped his desk tighter. Oh but he wouldn't give him the opportunity to release his anger yet. It was better to let it simmer for the two hours that'd follow, making Potter feel helpless. His eyes traveled around the dungeon room to set on the shy plump Gryffindor. Longbottom lowered his eyes. Before last day's events, Snape had wanted revenge. Now that he'd got it, why would he report his anger on the boy? He had to check the mystery of the parchments before everything...

"Turn to page 617."

There was a ruffle of pages and the soft sound of leather covers meeting the wooden tables. The teenagers let their bags hit the floor and Snape was already pointing at the board, where the instructions of the next potion were being written. "Only check on the manual if you have any doubt. During the 20 minutes when the potion will change from orange to beige, I want you to write an essay about its uses, its limits, the dangers of excessive consumption, as well as the properties of the key ingredients. Only," he spun to glare at Granger, "the essentials. You will give me this essay for correction. It will serve as a quick summary of the lesson, in regards to the exams at the end of this year... Beware the fire seeds. Wear your dragonhide gloves when manipulating them."

He felt the need to come at Longbottom's table just before setting them to their tasks.

"Do you understand?"

The boy looked up timorously. "Yes... sir..."

"Was that a question?"

"Uh... I..."

"Nevermind," Snape said hotly. "Could you tell us all what precaution I just gave you?"

Longbottom looked at him dumbly.

Something inside Severus snapped.

The plump, hopeless boy, whose mouth was gaping as though ready to drool, was too much of a reminder to the psychopathic Pettigrew, romanticized for everyone's sensitive ear. He hated the boy to remind him of the other cowardly fool. Potter was like his father, how would Longbottom be any different? He'd given him homework to do for the summer, given him the corrected instructions, specified orally the important changes to follow, and still the boy was failing...

_Maybe you should change your tactics._

Snape startled at the hallucinated voice.

Lack of sleep was really exerting on his body.

"I suggest you wear your gloves for the potion of the day, Longbottom, unless you wish to spend the night crying over your skinless hands... No more than four fire seeds. Can you repeat this?"

"Er..."

The senseless babbling grated on his nerves. Really, why was he doing so much effort to help the imbecile? Longbottom would only hurt himself this time... and maybe that'd teach him a lesson...

"Repeat after me. Dragonhide gloves. Four fire seeds and no more... Well?"

"Dragonhide gloves. Five fire see -"

"Four fire seeds. Let's do it again," he murmured silkily, the menace clear in his velvet voice, bending further over the table.

"Four fire -"

"Start with the gloves."

"Uh... Start with -"

The Slytherins were starting to snicker behind them. Snape felt the gazes of several Gryffindors burning his back, but he paid them no mind. The vein at his temple was pulsing rapidly. This student was impossible. A Muggle could have done better.

"Dragonhide gloves," he said with forced articulation.

"Dragonhide gloves," Longbottom repeated after a beat.

"Four fire seeds."

"Four fire seeds."

"Well then, let's do it all over."

"Uh... Dragonhide gloves and five fire -"

"Do you not know how to count, Mister Longbottom?" Snape snarled, scowling. "Or are you purposefully impersonating a clown to make your friends laugh?" The Gryffindor ought to be thrown out of this class. "Let me tell you it doesn't make much difference to me if you burn your arms up to the elbow. I'm doing this for you, you little fool. Is that too much to ask for a 13 year-old teenager to repeat five poor words?"

Longbottom was blushing crimson, eyes acquiring a glossy shine. Snape's nails grated on the wooden desk in barely restrained fury. Oh by Merlin, someone shake the boy!

"If I told you the class wouldn't start until you managed to repeat those important instructions, would this make you obey for once?"

_You fool..._

Snape's eyes fluttered strangely for a second.

_You will not achieve anything by going at it straightforwardly._

"WHO'S SPEAKING?!" Snape suddenly howled at his back. The closest students jumped in surprise and the gossips died out. Apparently everyone had been discussing about the show of the day...

_Won't he ever stop?_

He almost broke his neck when sending Potter a scorching death stare.

_That's just bullying!_

_No it isn't_ , Snape mentally replied. _It's the boy... making me stand there like a fool... I ought to give him detention... or empty the Gryffindor Hourglass more..._ Because really, how else would he be able to teach a class cursed with the Longbottom Syndrome?

And then the next second, he exhaled a deep breath. It was as though all the rage had exhausted itself, like a fire that had consumed all its oxygen. Severus straightened in front of Neville, closing his eyes for a few moments. When he spoke, his voice had acquired a softer tone:

"Very well... If that's how things are going to be... I can't think how someone can be so utterly helpless, so maybe... maybe a new method is in order." The class grew intrigued. Their Potions Master had never shown this kind of attitude to the near-Squib before. It meant no good...

Severus shifted a leg to the side, and loudly: "Everyone start their potions. Do not forget the essays. The ingredients are in the cupboard, as usual... You have an hour and forty minutes. Begin."

Swiftly after: "Longbottom, I have no choice. It seems you are a special case... to which I must adapt, for everyone's sanity. You will brew under my direct surveillance."

Longbottom quavered at this announcement. Really it was as though nothing could be worse than that.

Snape was surprised at himself. He was even more so when, instead of standing right next to the walking disaster, he leant against the stone wall, crossing his arms. Ten minutes after, he was patrolling the tiny cauldrons. Soon enough, he returned to Longbottom's side.

He had grabbed redstone over the fire seeds.

Snape wanted to slap himself.

Without saying a word, he gathered the mistaken ingredient in his hand, conjuring the correspond flask to restore it.

"Come with me."

Everybody stared as the two walked to the big opened cupboard.

"This," Snape started, lifting the flask to the Gryffindor's head, "is redstone. No need to say you were two fingers from blowing your head off. These however..." he grabbed a tiny bottle on the shelf, "these are the fire seeds. They are smoother than the redstone. They often have a single hard edge, and possess an orange hue. Reference is on the bottles' stickers, if you ever happen to doubt about your choice. Is that clear?"

The boy nodded wildly.

"Then again, with your ascertained competences in Herbology, this shouldn't be a problem for long..."

Finnegan choked on his own saliva.

When the boy inexorably started to take the fire seeds bare-handed, Severus deftly took his wrist, causing him to jump.

"Now, what have I said about the dangers of fire seeds?"

The boy's eyes grew big. Of course he had... 'forgotten' them. He knelt to search inside his bag. And then he gasped.

"You've forgotten your dragonhide gloves in your common room, isn't that right?"

The next moment, a pair of spare gloves was conjured; they came from the indefinitely-lost-items chest. "These will do..."

"Thank you sir," Neville stammered.

"Also, that will be five points from Gryffindor."

The lesson proceeded smoothly. In less than two hours, Snape had prevented more trips to the Infirmary than two months among other common classes. The students were returning to their tables after depositing their essays on the front desk when the boy stilled. The Potions Master looked over his shoulder and realized, with an internal gasp, that the impossible had been achieved.

The potion was _good_. By some miracle, today was the day Longbottom had finally brewed a potion that was worthy of administering to somebody without causing any further harm. It didn't matter much that this wouldn't have happened if the teacher had directed 50% of the process. This cauldron, this vapour, this concoction, were the unmistakable sign that...

"You see Longbottom, with a little more concentration and a firmer hand, even the arts of potion-making is accessible to you."

He swallowed down the 'to an incompetent like you'. Judging by the astonished look the Gryffindor gave him, it was worth it; he'd won many points with the boy. He told him to gather a ladle of the mixture in a flask and bring it to the desk next to the others along with the essay. The bell rang, everything was packed, the students left the classroom for lunch. Severus positioned himself behind his chair, looking over the empty tables.

With a sharp intake of air, he exclaimed:

"What I have _done_?!"

**¯\\_(** **ツ** **)_/¯**

The news of what happened in Potions class spread very fast, like canon powder. The professors at the Head Table couldn't believe their ears. All those who'd been interested in the mockery of the travestied Snape started to shake their heads in incredulity.

"This is the least he could do to Neville..." said Potter at dinner.

"It's a trap. It can't be anything else. Just wait until next class, or the one after, and he'll be back to being the greasy git he's always been. That or he's planning something bigger. It can't be anything else... Right Hermione?"

The ginger boy turned to his friend at the side. She was frowning, deep in concentration. You could hear the brainstorm inside.

"...Right."

"Well that doesn't bother me."

Everybody on the Gryffindor table turned their heads to Neville.

"I'm quite glad of what happened in class... It's the first time I've managed to brew a correct potion! Now if only my essay was right as well..."

"Yeah, but he's still a git. Wait for next time, he'll make you pay for how you made a fool out of him with the Boggart..."

"No no," replied Neville. "No, I'm confident in him... I mean, I know I've always been difficult, that's what my grandma always said - it's kind of him to have tried to be patient -"

"How can you say that?" asked Seamus in a loud voice. "Snape's always been a git to you. He changed once and now you're defending him?"

Neville's cheeks bloomed pink.

"Huh... Yeah."

"You're unbelievable," Ron retorted.

"Just give him a chance - I'm sure it means something!"

"Oh come on!" Potter spat back, crashing a glass of water on the table. "It's Snape we're talking about. Obviously he hasn't forgotten what you did - look at what he's done to Lupin! He's just waiting for the right moment to strike... harder than ever before."

Neville fell silent. He threw a glance to the end of the Head Table, which was empty. The Potions Master was about to miss his lunch. Then he looked back at the vindictive emerald eyes.

"That's rude of you to always think the worst of Snape, after everything he's done to protect you."

Potter straighten in his seat as though he'd just got slapped.

"I've heard about how he saved you in first year Harry... Had I been in your place, I'd be more grateful. Have you ever thanked him?"

Hermione took her chance, smiling: "He's right Harry. When I always tell you you exaggerate about Professor Snape..."

"Hermione, not you too."

"Yes me too."

"He's a bully!" cried Ron. "It doesn't matter if he saves us, he takes pleasure in humiliating us."

"If you cared about doing your homework in time, Ronald Weasley, maybe you would get less Dreadfuls on your tests. And you Harry, if you concentrated on your cauldron rather than him -"

"That's not my fault - he's always there behind my back, watching me -"

"He's only trying to see if you're doing right -"

" _Ah!_ As if."

Neville swallowed the forkful of roast potatoes and roastbeef before adding:

"Well I understand. It's not easy to have me as a student -"

"Oh _come on_..." Harry interjected.

"No really! I don't know what's up with me but it's obvious that, er... Well, have I told you my family feared that I was a Squib?"

"So what?" Ron said in a mouthful of sausage. "That's not a problem. You're a Wizard, if you don't understand Potions, that's his fault. It doesn't matter how you don't do well in class... The other teachers are okay, why would he be different? How wait, I remember, he's a Slytherin - the Head of Slytherins actually - maybe that's something to consider?"

"Funny how you never side with me unless you talk about Snape. I never recall you taking my side when people were making fun of me in class, unless when it was convenient for your stance."

People around Neville froze to hear better. Some of them tried to speak, but Neville shut them, bitter:

"You always despise me behind my back. How's that so different from Snape? At least he's honest, and he does try to help me - aside from Hermione of course. Last time you were more upset from losing points rather than how I felt about the class - you two had been too focused on what Malfoy was talking about instead."

"What's your point?"

"No point in particular... Just some things to be reckoned... _right_?"

The Snape Discourse died quickly enough on Neville's part. Hermione tried to argue in the Greasy Git's favour, but she was ignored, her arguments invalid as she was a teacher's pet who always put too much confidence in adults.

Shortly after, a door at the side of the Head Table opened, and in a billowing of black robes, strode a hasty Snape, arrogance etched on his lines. He sat, chest puffed out, brow furrowed, tapping the table with the cutlery before setting on the food which had just appeared. People were sending him odd looks. Finally, it was Minerva who spoke first, to Snape's great dismay.

"So... What's gotten to you, Professor Snape? First the prank at the table, now helping Longbottom - what is on your mind? Is it all because of the incident in Defense class?"

He exhaled through his nose, unimpressed by her approach. He gulped the peas.

"What makes you think I have anything to do with Lupin's call of nature?"

"Don't play innocent with me, Severus Snape," she retorted with a light fist on the table. "We all know you are behind this. That was very childish of you by the way. Childish, petty and improper from a Professor. Pathetic, might I say."

"You've got no proof."

"You just gave me one."

"I _said_... that I have _nothing_ to do with what happened yesterday... But if you don't believe my word, Professor McGonagall... Then the problem's only up to you. Merely considering in a new light how weak the trust you put on me is... especially for a Gryffindor who swore to be fair."

"Don't try to escape the subject!" she replied, piqued, pride hurt. "And don't try to put the blame on me."

"Mmh."

The man closed his eyes against the blinding light of the candles. He considered looking at the sky up ahead, which was still very bright in the summer early night, including at this hour in Scotland. That was his life. Being a double-agent didn't make things any easier as well...

Though sometimes, he pondered whether the indecipherable masks he wore were not his new true colours instead.

He was reduced to this. He trusted Dumbledore, and for all his mistakes, he admitted he rather liked the old coot... Minerva, his former teacher and now his friendly rival, was the closest thing he had for a acolyte... Narcissa, Lucius were there... some colleagues like Aurora, Flitwick, Pomona or Hagrid as well.

But he'd lived first-hand the cold consequences of Dumbledore's calculated choices. The dinner was the very picture of his relationship with Minerva... The Malfoys were all pretense and interest... his colleagues were such shallow company...

Severus knew his place.

How could he change that without blowing up his cover?

It was necessary, but it - hurt - all the same.

"You talked about revenge, Minerva, didn't you?" Severus opened an eye to look sideways. She was frowning, lips tightened like the stern woman she was. Obviously she was indignant by Snape's actions. Her face however, let him see that she was relieved he would finally talk. He barely felt his hand lower next to his plate. He cleared his throat subtly.

"The best revenge I could have against your new _favorite_ colleague - Lupin" she startled at that - "was to compete on who was the most effective professor. I am not stupid. If Longbottom doesn't improve because he's been too frightened by the eventuality to be proven a hopeless Wizard - a Squib, in other words... You know how Augusta's hand all but destroyed the boy's confidence, which makes it more difficult to teach him... Well, when I heard all Longbottom needed was a little bit of supervision, I seized the opportunity. It would be in everyone's best interest for the boy not to endanger his partners. I cannot afford to be indulgent with your Gryffindors, mainly because of Draco and his kind. But maybe I can make... an exception, in my teaching habits. For him."

Minerva's eyes glistered.

" _Only_... for him. Don't expect me to coddle all of your children. And for Merlin's sake," he added in an exasperated sigh, "don't you _dare_ thinking I've developed a soft spot for all the lost puppies in the school. Is that settled?"

Minerva regained her composure.

"Why, yes. Thank you for your confidence, Severus. Bon appétit.

Slytherins were all suggestion and misdirection. McGonagall might accept his inquiry, it was evident, by the absence of her usual tense posture, that she thought completely otherwise. The seeds had been planted. Soon enough, the Head Table regained its usual dinner gossip. There were flashes of smiling lips, enthusiastic hands, clattering cutlery and amused twinkles. There were knowing looks.

And just like that, Severus Snape had won back years' worth of staff camaraderie.

**¯\\_(** **⌣̯** **̀** **⌣** **́)_/¯**

The wine glass shattered on the ground.


	2. Sweet Nettle Wine

That was not normal.

The lunch comedy -- the essays -- the Longbottom rescue -- the falsely disinterested spiel -- they were all foreign to the Potions Master.

Those things shouldn't have ever happened.

And now, the _voices_... the mind-breaking headaches, the hallucinations, the heightened senses, the alien body gestures!

He was sick. Or cursed. Or possessed. Something -- something serious was happening to him. His colleagues might buy in the 'young teacher recognizing his mistakes and making up for them because he secretly cares about his students in difficulty' story, he could not lie to himself, at least not unintentionally.

The worst was that he didn't even know what was the most worrying, and he had no concluding clue as to what had hit him.

Or was he going crazy with the stress pressure? Was he losing his mind?

"Severus! Are you alright?"

His eyes felt like rolling back in front of the Great Hall -- oh crap, everybody was watching...

"Huh...!"

"Merlin, dear, you've been acting weirdly since yesterday..." Poppy added.

_Merlin saves me from that meddling Mediwitch..._

Severus slowly shook his head, trying to focus on the present.

"No -- no need to worry --"

"Yeah, it's not like you just dropped your glass with no reason --"

"Back off!" Snape protested against the women's hands threatening to bypass his personal space, the realm of the forbidden...

"Stop acting like a precious princess Seve --"

"EXCUSE ME!?"

"Oh my God --"

Snape rose from his seat with hast. "I said, no need to worry. I just realized - there's a potion I've forgotten to check --"

"If that's not worrying on its own --"

"Poor Severus is too proud --"

Snape's nostrils flared and his eyes grew big, causing Pomona to giggle louder. He turned on his heel, cape flaring behind him and catching on the cutlery. His plate slid to the floor and remnants of his dinner trailed behind.

"Bollocks."

"This is a school for _children_ Severus!" berated Minerva.

He scoffed a Banishing Charm followed by a _Reparo_ , cleaning his clothes while he was at it. He turned and knocked his face on the door that hadn't been opened.

The Great Hall erupted in hysterical laughter, along with the professors at the Head Table. Even Lupin couldn't resist a smile.

_Please, oh please, how do I make them forget this?!_

He felt the magic being drained by the wand at his wrist. He watched, flabbergasted, how his hands followed an intricate pattern and produced shimmering threads of magic which glowed an instant before disappearing.

The Great Hall fell into silence.

When people stopped looking at each other to inspect the end of the Head Table, their Potions Professor was gone.

Indeed, he was trotting in a singular way. He swore his face had never been so red. He caught himself whistling with shame and caught the frame of the door as well. The Slytherin portrait shifted to the side. He practically ran into the room before crashing on the armchair.

"Merlin's arse that was embarrassing..."

He covered his face with his hands, feeling the feverish warmth of it. A wheeze after he was slumped forward, making himself as small as possible. The oily curtains of black hair shielded his face further.

"Okay..." he moaned weakly. “Okay, calm down... They don't know nothin' now.”

He let his hands fall and inspected them: the calloused palms and tips, the sharp edge of a thumb, the weird angles his fingers had taken over the years, how long and bony they were. Those were the same hands that had somehow used unknown spells. First to correct essays, then to note them, and lastly to make people forget his embarrassing act just minutes ago.

He sighed. A short moment after though, he noticed something at his right. His ear moved slightly, like the ear of a listening cat, and he felt his head turn to the side.

There was a Slytherin student looking at him oddly in his couch.

The problem was that there wasn't any couch in his living room.

He was in the Slytherin Common Room.

He bolted upright, throwing a dirty glare at the student, who shut his mouth. Five minutes later he found the bedroom in his own quarters. He remembered at the last minute how he had to check on the Wolfsbane, which was to be given to Lupin for a whole week before the transformation that'd occur shortly after Halloween.

Everything was a blur. Eventually, Severus slumped in his bed, thinking deep about how the strange events had happened. They'd always been things he wished for, things which put him in difficulty and made him ask a question. A specific kind of question... How was he going to mark so many tests in so little time? How was he going to annotate them? How could he ever humiliate Lupin back? How was he going to finally teach Neville how to brew correctly? How could he convince Minerva to be on his side? How would he make them forget his recent humiliation?

Snape was a very logic, intelligent man. As soon as his brain recalled all that, the conclusion to his problems was clear:

"How can I know what's happening to me?"

_This question is not very specific, a distorted voice chuckled._

He screamed.

"WHOSE JOKE IS THIS? WHO'S DOING THIS?" he bellowed, lighting the room aflame, bristling, eyes shining like ardent volcanoes. "WHO ARE YOU?!"

_I am something you cannot fight. You'd die in the attempt._

Snape snatched his wand and whipped it around, breathing erratically.

"DON'T PLAY WITH ME." Snape casted _Homenum Revelio_ \-- nobody was there except him and the voice. "REVEAL YOURSELF!"

_I cannot in these conditions._

_Is this Dark Magic?_ Snape wondered. He started to mentally rummage through all spells that'd detect or cancel it.

_I fear this is not Dark Magic, Mister._

He startled for the hundredth time this week, not having expected his thoughts to be read without feeling a single graze of Legilimency. He Occluded.

_Ah, this might not work very much... it won't after some time._

Snape's body took the Sneakoscope in his leather sac by reflex. It wasn't whizzing at all.

_What do you think? Oh wait you're not thinking actually... I meant -- I'm not threatening. I've got no ill-intent. And before you unconsciously think so, no, I haven't disabled it. It works just fine. I can't convince you before you listen to me._

  * **.** **◉**



It took an hour before Snape was able to calm down.

He went for a big mug of tea, shaking with adrenaline. He swirled his spoon inside his mug, looking at it blankly, the sort of stare that would make you think doom had come early.

_Now, will you listen to me?_

"How did you cast the Obliviation Spell on Dumbledore? Who are you to be this powerful?"

_All in due time. Now, you asked a question, right?_

Severus slowly took a sip of the drink, scalding his tongue buds on the way.

_Your question was quite vague, and I could have given an answer that'd misdirect you. But I am not difficult. You were on the right way, reporting for weeks later the inevitable discovery of your condition is boring. Your case is quite unique; I don't think any wizard with common sense would have thought of a solution this quickly... So, you wish to know what's happened?_

It took a few seconds before Snape nodded, alone, feeling like he was a crazy man answering to his mental demons.

_Oh no, you're not possessed. Well, at least not in the way you think. You better lay on your pillow or else you might pass out on the floor... Our connection is not completed after all... I'm going to make you LIVE what could answer your question._

Severus executed, padding back to the bed, the mug sitting on the nightstand. As the explanations started, the voice took over a dreamy tone, whispering to the human, and him only.

_It started two weeks ago... I come from the Department of Mysteries... Do you remember, that Monday evening when you were asked to accomplish Dumbledore's mission?_

"Yes, I do... How do you know Dumbledore was behind?"

_I might have perused your memories in your sleep... That's where the nightmares came from. Hope that didn't annoy you much._

At this point Severus didn't care very much.

_Dumbledore was the one supposed to come. The letter the Unspeakable asked him to come for help... He had written that he wanted Dumbledore to answer a few questions in hopes it would unravel the mystery around the Room of Love. It was imperative that the wizard who came would be someone able to withhold the secrets under torture -- the wizard would be a powerful Occlumens._

Severus waited patiently, staring at the ceiling, which was starting to blur before his eyes. Flashes of the Department of Mysteries flickered like mirages, clearer and clearer by the minute.

I _was the one who sent the letter._

His eyes widened but he found himself helpless, and so he didn't move.

_Or rather, I was the one who sent it. I requested an Occlumens, because I knew they were rare, powerful, versed in the obscure arts. Effective skimming. Furthermore, someone below the level of an Occlumens might have died this night. Their mental power would have been crushed, leaving an empty shell in their place. I didn't want Dumbledore specifically to be honest -- I wanted the ideal host for my powers. And so it happened that Dumbledore hadn't had time -- or so was the excuse he gave you. In reality he was too paranoiac, and you were more disposable in case of danger. He sent you instead._

Severus recalled his summon at the Headmaster's Office, in the atrocious evening of the first Monday after the Boggart Incident. He had been hectic -- the Headmaster silencing him, Lupin on the way to kill someone, Black on the loose, Potter daft as a brush, the Dementors' cold influence crawling on his skin, his worst memories haunting him. The exotic mission hadn't even lifted his mood.

He saw himself walking angrily through the subterranean corridors of the Ministry.

_You were irate and exhausted. This is how, in the turn of a corner, you found the room I inhabited._

Snape opened the door to a big circular room. There were jars, aquariums, tanks of all shaped shining in a greenish colour, as though... radioactive. He lifted an eyebrow at what he found: the strange globular shadows swimming in the slick watery substance resembled -- no, were actually -- brains.

Severus gasped.

"You are a brain?"

_Some kind of it. I am a new, independent brain that you hadn't seen, because I was hidden far away in the shadows of the room._

Snape looked around, waiting impatiently for the Unspeakable to come.

_You haven't seen me -- but I saw you, and I knew this was what I wanted._

"I am a host to -- to a parasite --"

_Please don't insult me... I am not a simple parasite. Let's talk about... symbiosis._

Time passed quickly, as though someone had pressed to fast-forward button of a film. The man tapped his boot against the stone frenetically, arms crossed. Inspecting him was a brain, in the back, unknown, forgotten, a single eye absorbing the sight with its tunnel of a pupil. A hooded woman entered the scene. Snape asked her something.

"Please excuse us," she answered. "This Unspeakable is a new recruit. We don't require you for finding solutions. Rest assured that matters of the mysteries inside these rooms hide their secrets in the objects found here -- as it is the case for those brains... You shouldn't stay here any longer. They know you are here, they could try to escape. Come on. I will present our sincerest excuses to you and Headmaster Dumbledore."

The two humans disappeared by the corner just as the little eyed brain had lifted itself off its watery tank in silence. Its vines propelled it forward, by the ceiling. Snape strode next to many doors and corridors, through frames of light and shadows -- by the next time light illuminated him, the brain hanging behind his head had disappeared.

"This way."

Snape walked away from the woman, ignoring her last apologizes.

He was furious.

"I had lost time in my work."

_And you wondered if it was a strategy coming from Lupin, to lure you away or the Headmaster. It was perfect._

The vision faded from Severus' eyes, only to be replaced by another. It was him, at his desk, slumped back in the armchair. He looked sick, pale and tired. Seeing this man who obviously had to correct hundreds of parchments while in no state to do so was pathetic. The last time Severus had been this self-conscious about such sad statement about overwork was when he had insisted, through the pain of a thousand knives piercing his head, to continue his training in Occlumency against Dumbledore. He had felt like his nose and ears were bleeding from the acute pressure -- he wouldn't admit it to himself, he'd cried through the colossal effort; eyes spidery-red, feeling as they would pop out any second.

He realized that he was feeling almost the same in the present.

"What -- what's happening? Are you --"

_I'm sorry. It's only the process of symbiosis. It will ease with time._

Snape grunted, covering his face with the base of his palms, squirming amidst the curtains.

_Remember this night? I confiscated your wand in your sleep... you were tired enough not to mentally fight... and so here we are. I've got to say, your body resisted. It wasn't easy to maintain you in a state of sleep, while your body wouldn't cease shaking, sending blood and magic to reject me._

"You invaded me..."

_A simple matter of perspective._

Severus snorted.

"So... are you there to kill me? To take my place?" He briefly considered using his wand or a potion to eliminate the threat, no matter if he wouldn't survive in the process.

_No._

"How could I know you're not lying?"

_You can't for certain._

"So you can invade my mind but I can't?"

_I don't function like your common human brains. I simply... seem like one._

"Why me?"

_Because the Path decided so._

"The Path?"

_Ah..._

There was a moment of -- internal -- silence.

_The Path... Which I also call Path of Victory... The gift of this superpower to this brain was celebrated by the appearance of an eye. The humans in the Room of Thoughts were scared. This brain, that hadn't shown any sign of sentient life before, was suddenly composed, studying them with obvious sense of self-awareness. It wasn't a mere vessel of memories anymore. Starting from those memories and the chemical reactions they created, it had gained something else... And so they stored the littlest yet most threatening brain away._

Severus was dizzy from these tales. The brain may have acquired a soul by the sole appearance of a superpower and yet it didn't work like human minds, whatever it meant -- this superpower was a mystery as well. Luckily the intruder answered:

_The Path of Victory is a rare gift that allows someone -- or something -- to achieve anything possible if the user asks the right question. It will present various paths to them; they choose which one they prefer. Usually it will be the fastest way. The more an objective is complicated, the more steps there will be. If the user allows it, the Path will help them to accomplish each step. They can still refuse a path; if so, they will be presented with another. If they want to abandon the objective they chose, so be it. It is a gift rarer than that of a True Seer, really... You are lucky._

Severus still had difficulties to understand the full extent of what the Path meant.

"How is it that... this magical gift chose you?"

_You don't think only Wizards are gifted with astral powers, do you?_

He remained silent.

_Of course... you Wizards, humans who play with powers they don't fully comprehend, thinking they are gods, no matter their humble pretense... Muggles gifted with Seer powers manifest those in subtler ways. Sometimes they are called crazy. No matter how devoid of magic they are, they truly possess the gift of sudden prediction, which is indifferent to the status of the being. I am not even human, yet magic presented the Path to me. It could have been any other conscious being, including the animals, although they wouldn't be able to manifest it further than through means of ensuring survival and reproduction. It chose me, and I wished to choose a partner for symbiosis. Thus our actual situation._

Funny how Severus had never noticed the sounds of currents in the Lake, intensified by each passing of the Giant Squid. He interrupted the bodiless voice:

"What is your objective?"

_Symbiosis._

"Why?" he asked, wondering whether the brain was joking or hiding its true purpose.

_Because that's what I want. I achieved that, I am satisfied. As it is the purpose of symbiosis, I will get to live through you, and you will, in return, benefit from my Path. It can be said to be yours now._

"You don't want to... fuse... with other brains?" added Severus in a careful voice.

_No._

"You won't try to manipulate me?"

 _No. But_ you _will eat me away._

"Pardon?"

Between his ears resonated a very-present, haunting chuckle. It ceased softly.

_Don't you see? I told you I, as a brain, do not function like a human. And yet here I am, laughing, experiencing emotions, taking on your personality. I am acting following the same codes as yours, like a mere reflection. The more I will merge, the more I will fade. Eventually, when we will be one, you will be left alone, talking to yourself in reality._

The greasy-haired man tightened his grip on the plush blanket.

_Suddenly the prospect of symbiosis doesn't seem like a problem when you are coming out as the winner... does it?_

**ヾ** **(** **￣** **0** **￣** **)** **ノ**

The next morning, Severus woke with a strange feeling. He had learned so many things that it had knocked him out. It was nothing however, compared to the constant flux of information he received, cognitive and sensorial. Laid on the side, hands under the pillow, brown blankets coiled between his calves, he slowly yawned the grogginess out.

_I feel like a window in your rooms would do you good, Severus._

The next instant he was on the floor, entangled in the sheets.

_Good morning._

"That's usually what we say first" Severus said sarcastically, only remembering who -- or what -- had talked so close. He squirmed out of the blankets, leaving a sock behind that had slid off his foot. He sat on the bed.

_The Wolfsbane is ready._

"Yes, I know," Severus murmured. He felt embarrassed. He didn't know what to do. So he started to play with his toes. The events of last night were a lot to process.

_I see you are a man who favors thinking before acting. I advise you to just let life take its course. When you have experienced the first effects of the Path, you will be able to assess your next course of actions._

"There are no drawbacks? No conditions? No bad consequences, no prices, no sacrifice to make for the Path?" asked Severus dismissively, wiggling his toes in funny angles.

_None. You are -- free -- to do as you wish. Only be... careful, what you wish for... and the path you take._

"No lies? No condition?"

_Neither._

"You told me everything?"

_Everything about the Path indeed..._

Severus cocked his head to the side, a curious smile on the corner of his lips.

_So, what will you first wish be?_

The smile stretched to both ears maliciously. His black eyes glittered more than ever.

"Help me achieve the best wank you can before breakfast."

**(*´ο`*)**

Breakfast this Saturday was a rather interesting affair. McGonagall's eyebrows quirked as she saw the satisfied smile upon Snape's figure. She was even more confused when he saw him taking a whole bowl of chicory into which he put spoons upon spoons of sugar.

"Just pour the whole cup of sugar, Severus," she started half-smiling. Severus settled his spoon into the drink, and with a soft voice, he said:

"I've discovered coffee upsets my stomach. I'm cranky the whole day that follows. It's not worth it. So I'll see if chicory is better."

"Ah."

She hadn't been expecting this rather -- intimate -- confession. Nonetheless she tailed off the small-talk:

"Has something happened to you to make you this happy this morning? You rarely are this relaxed, even in the start of the week-end..."

"Hm?"

He took a long sip of the bowl before spreading butter on a large cracker.

"No -- nothing really new... Well, except that I am finished with -- the correction of essays --"

"Indeed?"

"I wouldn't have guessed this would get your rapt attention though."

He grinned as he crushed the cracker in his mouth, at the same time Minerva wanted to speak.

"Has your sudden change in mood come from yesterday's prowess?" she asked over the crunch-crunch of the teacher. "Or have you made peace with the innocent joke played by our colleague?" At that, she approached his face, almost closing her eyes in an auspicious stare. Severus shrugged. She waited, and waited, until finally she couldn't take it any longer. Her hand slid the bowl to her side just as the wizard tried to reach it.

"Should there be a reason for me not to appreciate a morning?"

Now that was too unexpected for McGonagall, whose face changed from annoyance to incredulity. She still shooed his hands away.

"Should there be a reason you are angry most of our mornings, as it has been the case for the last months? _Ah ah ah_ \--" she used her wand to levitate the breakfast down the other side of the table "-- a service for a service."

"What do you offer in the end? Why, yes, you owe me a service for starting to invade my personal space first. I am innocent."

"You are many things, Professor Snape,' she replied, "but innocent is not one of them. In this case, I find it highly intriguing how you strutted up here to take breakfast in the happiest way I've seen since that year after Slytherin's first success. This can only mean something bad, knowing you... No!"

But McGonagall was unable to counter her rival's spell. The bowl sat back in front of him. He drank from it. He looked smug before McGonagall's failed attempts to manually retrieve the bowl.

"A problem Minerva?"

Septima snorted into her cup next to them. He’d never said her first name until then.

" _Minerva_?" the interested cried. "Who are you? What have you done to our Potions Master?"

There was a fleeting tremor to the man. He quickly regained his composure, sighing.

"Could you please leave me alone?"

"Abandoning this quickly, are we?"

"I may be in a better mood than usual, I am no more prone to playing games. I told you I have finished working for the week-end, isn't that reason enough? Or do I have to display a vile facade so you can compare and rejoice in the fact you seem to have a better life than your despicable colleague?"

He asked the latter with more vitriol that he'd usually have intended to. It was obvious the reply had reached its target square in the chest, seeing as McGonagall backed away with hurt in her eyes.

"That was uncalled for," Flitwick said.

"Your opinion was uncalled for."

"I can fight my battles without your help, thank you," she added.

Flitwick made himself very small, if that ever was possible.

McGonagall drew her gaze back to Severus, who was wiping off his mouth with a napkin.

"That isn't my intent at all! It just -- it seems --"

"Unnatural for me to be happy. It gets even better."

"No! I mean -- oh for Merlin's sake! You win. I thought you had changed, you didn't." She snapped her attention back to her food, sending a last vexed look.

She was stricken by the sadness betrayed upon his face.

 _Let her be_ , the brain-voice whispered to Snape. _Don't worry._

He resumed the breakfast with marmite, stuffed bacon and honeyed eggs.

'I never drink orange juice with milk,' Severus thought for the parasite -- symbiote -- to hear. 'Once I tried... I wanted to vomit. I suspect the acid helped to ferment the milk in my stomach... Which is weird because the stomach produces acid itself... What do you think?'

_You are lactose-intolerant. A good think you used water for the chicory..._

'What is lactose?' he asked, chewing on his bread.

_Lactose is a component of milk. A molecule. To be digested, an enzyme, called lactase, breaks this molecule into glucose and galactose. This enzyme is found in the vast majority of babies, so they can drink the milk of their mother. However, as the baby grows into an adult and milk consumption becomes unnecessary, they often produce less and less of that enzyme. The molecule cannot be digested as easily as before. This leads to digestive problems that you must know by now, such as -- nausea, diarrhea --_

'Well,' Snape cut, 'I didn't know you were a library by yourself. Is it the Path?'

He forced the last slice of bread between his jaws.

_Indirectly at it. It's just a trick. I am magical. I can ask the Path for the goal of knowing the answer to a question by having my magic transcript information directly into me, using chemicals to create synapses._

Snape was starting to feel confused with the alien terms. He hated feeling like an idiot.

'And so you know everything?'

_No. I didn't know about lactose until you asked. My Path included the steps of explaining to you what lactose was, in terms simple enough._

'I imagine you know the variety of paths presented to you by instinct?'

_Indeed._

Snape swallowed a spoon of peas.

'So... You can literally know every answer to any question if I asked so?'

_Yes._

Hidden behind a stoic facade, his heart started to thump violently. The prospects of this ability -- oh my -- the possibilities were endless... Internally, he cackled.

'So...,' he silently chanted, repressing a smile, "so... You are able to tell me how to... why, let's get to the point... defeat the Dark Lord once and for all?'

_Yes._

A shudder of excitement ran down his spine.

'In the fastest way as well?'

_Naturally._

'Without any causality?'

_These are mundane worries for the Path. Of course they can be achieved._

He took a deep breath.

'Does it make me -- more powerful than the Dark Lord?'

_Not essentially... although you can be powerful if you ask to._

'Dumbledore? Merlin?'

_The greatest Wizard to this day._

'...Of all time?'

 _Ah, that's where things get complicated_ , replied the inner voice. _The Path is gifted to many beings. There is no way it can make one -- by your human standards -- the best being of all time while answering that same wish for another one. Thus it cannot guarantee this wish that affects the future. This has already been asked several times, you know._

'What about the second greatest Wizard of all time?'

The voice giggled. _Smart one, yes... But the principle stays the same._

'Basically... everything is accessible to me...'

_It is a greatest prospect than the fake image given to you by the magical world, indeed._

Snape quickly felt queasy. Whether it was the abundant breakfast, the last sentence or... what thought had crossed the mind.

'Is it possible... by magic... that we -- I...' He sighed internally. 'That I resurrect a friend of mine?'

_No._

Severus had expected that. The answer was obvious. That was one of the rules of magic: that the dead stay dead.

It didn't stop it from hurting.

Because the Path had given him the tinniest bit of hope, and he was weak.

He dug his nails in his palms in self-loathing and shame.

_Not... in the common sense._

He frowned.

_There are alternative ways that work just as well. You can go back in time, fake her death, manipulate events so you can save her while respecting the laws of time -- you can force reincarnation, or find a -- who is it? A Lily, in another dimension, as complex the process may be. You can 'create' a Lily who's really identical to whom she was last. But you cannot -- resurrect her._

Snape shut his eyes. He barely noticed how his oily hair fell on his face, as was usual when he was distressed.

_It is not because the Universe wants to hurt you. It would allow it very well if that didn't upset its very mechanisms. Allow me to explain?_

'Go on.'

The Great Hall was becoming empty, the scrapping of the chairs against the stone upsetting to the ears. Snape fell on the back of the chair, breathing deeply. His eyes were slightly opened, but they weren't focused on the children at all.

'I'm listening.'

_See, when you finally pass on, you are often given a choice. You can go back to the mortal world, or you can decide to remain in the Afterlife. Let's take Lily's case. She has done a lot of bad but her hands -- or rather, her soul, is mostly clean. It is fixable. If she decides to remain where she is, in the Afterlife, she will live her best dreams. Discussing with her husband. Playing with Sirius. Hugging her sister Tuney. Running free... happy._

It took several seconds before it clicked.

'Her sister?!'

_Her sister... who is not dead yet. The deceased have their wishes that the Afterlife grants, because there, magic is so present that a mere thought can bring them anything they want. It is a world with different rules. Some sort of Heaven. But you can imagine that the wishes of the dead conflict with each other, right? If, in the Afterlife, Lily wished to see her sister while her husband refused, it would create sadness, which isn't allowed in a place such as Heaven._

_On the other hand, forcing the dead to have the same wishes and be content for everything means to erase those persons as identities. They become a single person, a single will, devoid of anything that makes them who they are -- existing, but really, a part of the cosmos. If we imagine that we forced Lily to accept her husband's wish not to see her sister and be glad of it -- well, who is to decide what it is she truly wants? Who is there to force them together, bending their wills so they conform to the boxes prepared for them -- for instance, the box of the ideal husband and that of the ideal mother. It would be problematic... Possible, but problematic. Why would the Universe play with them like toys, changing the rules for each individual, It who remains impartial? And as for the former hypothesis, it would mean that the dead has either the choice to go under reincarnation or to become part of an indistinct being. Isn't that terrible? People would prefer to be stuck in limbo. No, the world doesn't work that way._

_To satisfy everybody, the Afterlife has no other choice than to create illusions. To create what the deceased expect. They are happy. They live in dreams._

The voice let that sink in.

Snape was horrified.

'The Afterlife... is just a big lie?'

_..._

'So... All the people who died to meet those they wished to see again... They don't -- ever -- meet those they l-love?'

_Yes..._

'But can't this -- this Universe entity -- allow those who mutually wish to see each other -- to actually meet?'

_Not exactly._

'BUT HOW?! This place is supposed to be Heaven! How can Heaven not be ruled by Truth?! Why is it a prison?!' Severus grasped his own arms so he wouldn't shake.

_Heaven is also a haven for those who are done with sadness. Unless you force their wishes to be different, some people will want things others don't. In the most imperceptible ways... It's not that bad, you know._

'HOW IS IT NOT --' the Potions Master bit his tongue. 'Why can't there be exceptions?!'

_Rules are meant to be followed. You should know that. The tiniest exception to the laws of the universe can have disastrous consequences. The only other way is to create new laws or find loopholes -- loopholes such as those I have enunciated earlier._

'And this idea is shit! How can we feel happiness if there is no -- no badness to justify the notion of goodness -- where is the...'

_Adventure? Oh well, there is the illusion of bad feelings and bad events._

'Just as this happiness you talk about is shallow and illusory...'

_If that's how you say it._

'What if we decide to stay in limbo?'

_That's not the best thing to choose -- anyway, it's not possible. You are allowed time, you are allowed a wish before truly passing on. A wish that doesn't conflict with the choice to be made of course. It's simple. The dead will be presented with the possibilities -- pass on or reincarnate. If they don't choose... the Universe will do it for them. They pass on by default. They can still choose to be reincarnated in the meantime._

'So... what's about reincarnation then? Why would people refuse?'

The Great Hall was mostly empty by then. The Professors at the Head Table had left for the majority of them. Some would inspect Snape as they walked by, however, he remained oblivious.

_Reincarnation... You know that it consists in being given to the body of an infant, a vessel? Well, there is a price to it._

'Of bloody course, there is a price.'

_We are erased._

Well... Severus wonder whether he should have seen this coming or not.

_We are made blank. If your soul is a blackboard, then what's been written on it - your life, your personality, your attributes - is washed during reincarnation. It is a heavy responsibility, because if, in your next life, your soul is broken by the being you become, then it will prevent the normal course of the Afterlife. But that's a problem for another time..._

The idea of reincarnation sounded bad in Severus' ears. Very bad. So bad in fact, that he started to feel his hands shake with trepidation.

'So our soul...' he started, 'is more like a receipt than the usual idea of acting like a spirit, as is the case for the ghosts of the castle. It is life, but without the persona.'

_You're close enough._

Now that was sure to be a revolutionary notion among the elite groups of famous researchers in the Wizarding Society. If only Severus had been able to form ties with them, instead of being ignored by Slughorn because of his poverty and unpopularity... There was one thing that he wasn't able to understand clearly however.

'If a soul is rather a support than the person themselves, then why, when Dementors suck people's souls out, they remain like empty shells?'

Would this brain, this Path, allow Severus to finally understand those Dark Creatures which had existed for millenias, without any clue as to their true purpose or origin? Such a grand mystery? One of the main questions of the century?

The symbiote did not disappoint him. He explained:

 _People wrongfully assume that a person devoid of that life-force is someone who lost their soul. In reality it is the complete opposite. Their soul is left blank. Everything that made them who they were is sucked out by the Dementor. Attributes such as memories or self-awareness, intelligence or will, everything that made them 'human' - if you excuse me for a lack of less anthropomorphic terms - everything is cushed down inside the Dementor to help them reproduce by mitosis. This is why this person is forever lost._ *

This information left a weird taste for Severus. It was a relief not to lose our very soul... but the person was still destroyed... or more like killed. He would have rejoiced on the fact it wasn't that worse than death, but upon learning what the Afterlife consisted in, he wasn't sure anymore.

_Yes, Severus. You as a person are erased from existence, only leaving a virgin soul in your place. It is that, or you continue to live in the Afterlife. Humans are foolish when they think life in Earth is horrible - in certain aspects, they are even less free across the other world. Indeed, you have only one life._

_Let me tell you one more thing... People are often afraid, like you, to lose themselves forever in reincarnation. They have to let go everything. They are however given the privilege of choosing who to reincarnate into. Often, they choose newborns whose names honor them, or newborns with similar - but better, life conditions. Sometimes it is both._

'And I guess this is how we say that naming a child after somebody makes them prone to become the same person, as though it was inheritance.'

_...Yes. They cannot exactly know the future of their own reincarnation, but they can make a pretty good bet._

Severus took a deep breathe, released it.

_Scary system, isn't it?_

He refrained from shaking his head.

'I do not fear death.'

_Yes you do. You willingly refuse to think about it deeply. It's human. What matters most is not whether you fear death or not - it is how you face it. What do you think about how you face death until now?_

The conversation was getting dull and complicated. Two thumbs rubbed at the temples of the teacher who had gotten so much priceless information in one-go.

_Sorry... My magic is limited, I started to drain yours, but I won't be able to go on much longer._

'Good,' thought Snape.

These possibilities made him dizzy. He felt at once drunk with power and lost in his choices. He was... somewhat afraid, to try and use that new power without knowing its full extent. No, better try out this Path of Victory little by little. And if it worked, he could hunt the Dark Lord down... the fastest way possible, with minimal collateral damage... expiating his sins, without anybody being aware of that power.

But first, he had to test some rules to ensure his own security.

And then... he'd see about _her_.

He gulped.

'I'm surprised,' thought Snape in a reserved tone. 'I thought you would have berated me for wanting to resurrect... my friend, and her only. For being egoistical'

_I know that if she'd asked you to bring back her husband, you would have done it. Dumbledore left his mark enough, this night on the hill..._

He Occluded the shameful memory away as soon as it was mentioned.

_You hate how he implied you wanted her for you only?_

'Yes. That was...'

_I know. It wasn't as simple as this. He distorted your words and you couldn't protest, especially considering the context. Though you can't deny you internally rejoiced the possibility of Potter dying and freeing Lily..._

...

_Well, at least for a little while, hm?_

Severus forced the basheful blushing down.

'The Dark Lord thinks I merely desired her...' he almost whined.

_Do you sexually desire Ginny Wealsey? She looks fairly like her, and she's weak enough._

'Are you fucking – I am _NOT_ a pedophile! I-'

The brain-voice laughed over him _. I know_ , it replied.

'Why would you ask that?!' Snape internally cried.

_Because if your love towards that Lily consisted in mere sexual attraction, or possessiveness... then whatever image of her would have brought you to the edge. You wouldn't shag Ginny Weasley, although she looks so much like your ex-friend, so why would you worry about your love being impure or illegitimate?_

And although he couldn't hide anything from the voice inside his brains, Severus repressed the nagging worry of being judged for his choices... and their reasons. After a beat, the symbiote added:

_If you want to establish those rules of yours, you better get up and retreat back into your quarters._

Realizing he was alone at the Head Table except for Dumbledore, which was earning him weird looks from the remaining students, Severus started to banish the cutlery back to the kitchens, stuffing little bits of bread in the meantime.

Five minutes later he was pushing his chair back, getting up and casually collapsing face first on the floor.

"Severus?" he heard from the Headmaster.

_They say it's iron deficiency._

'How do you make them forget this without any suspicion on their part?' Snape asked in reflex as he scrambled to his feet, face beet red. His hand moved on his own, swift and fast, locking the chains of incantations down to the center. Everybody's memories shifted in a flash.

Severus couldn't help but gap at this sight.

If Albus Dumbledore himself couldn't escape, then Potions Master couldn't deny the spell was incredibly impressive. He leaved the Great Hall by the main door, straight and stoic to hide his own confusion.

 _There she is_ , the bodiless voice said all of a sudden.

"Professor Snape?"

He glanced back. McGonagall had been the one who'd spoken. She squirmed imperceptibly, sighing.

"I am sorry. My reaction this morning - it was disrespectful. I shall hold my tongue next time... and welcome you without - such rude questions." Her mouth hung open a few moments more, unsure what to say next. She shut it instead.

Genuine smiling was a rare occurrence to the Potions Master. And yet, somehow, he knew it wouldn't remain so for long. He felt his lips move and heard what the Path, or the symbiote, was replying in his stead.

" _Very well... I accept_."

This was more than enough for the distraught Headmistress. Her tight mouth allowed a thin smile - a smile nonetheless.

Before Snape could swipe through Hogwarts' corridors, the little voice told him:

" _Do not fret. We will guide you all the way... if that is what you wish._ "

**◉** **‿** **◉**

It was this day of September the 11th that Severus Snape, the most unpopular teacher at Hogwarts, had acknowledged his new superpower, the Path to Victory, thanks to a peculiar symbiote brain.

A Professor of Arithmancy versed in the Arts of Divination would have told you it was no hazard: September, the 9th month of the year, beginning of the falling season, highly vibrational number which is the holy number 3 multiplied by itself, predicting the fulfillment of one’s higher purpose and ultimate life mission, resonating with the number of his birth day; September meaning "seventh month", first mystic prime number of luck and perfection; the 11th day, the first master number, omen of supernatural abilities, number of the spiritual messenger who brings an sudden change in fate; Saturday, or the perfect day for ourselves; 1993 and the year of the Rooster like those fateful years of 1981 and 1969; clearly there were signs, for the Potions Master, to either live one of his worst years, or for Fate to rip itself in his favor.

This is at least what prophecy-tale-rubbish a legend would prefer.

But the hero of that legend would be a terrible one.

Going back into the dank and dark dungeons of Hogwarts, you would find a man draped in black robes muttering to magic what he wishes above all.

Thus were born the primordial requests.

The first fundamental wish was that no one could discover how he possessed a superpower, notably and precisely the Path to Victory.

The second fundamental wish was to protect Harry James Potter so that he wouldn't die other than by natural death, his natural death being old age not accelerated by magic.

The third fundamental wish was to always be protected himself and to be free from manipulation, torture, death, harassment, humiliation or violence, unless expressly requested.

The fourth fundamental was to always know what the ways of the Path consisted of, their consequences, to be able to act knowingly and to always preserve his freedom, his capacity for judgment and reflection, his memory, his spiritual and mental integrity, everything that made him an uninfected human at birth, in order to make his decisions.

 _Paranoiac, aren't you?_ teased the little demon.

The fifth fundamental wish was to always have the choice and the ability to act on those choices following whatever the laws of the universe would allow him, especially in the Path.

The sixth and maybe final fundamental wish was that the small brain never replaces him as an individual, not able to harm him voluntarily.

And it was upon drinking nettle wine after those words that the brain was named just that: Nettles the Neaty Entity.

**ʘ** **‿** **ʘ**

_*Another solution for this universe would be that separating the soul from the body and the mind disables any possibility to 'live' by the common term, thus the comatose state of the victims. But honestly..._

_The insects, the trees, are living things. Many people would argue that such primitive beings don't have a soul, and yet they are truly living (more than a victim of a Dementor). So either a body can live without a soul, or we kill many more than we think -- in this perspective, if killing a human destroys someone's soul, then why wouldn't killing many animals, who possess a soul themselves, have the same consequences? Some would say the difference is that the souls of animals are mortal. However I find it more than problematic in a universe with merepeople, vampires, centaurs, giants, goblins, veelas, etc. So we could say (for the sake of our own purity) that killing someone doesn't break the soul by itself, but that what enables someone to commit a truly intentioned murder (such as is required for the Avada) is what 'breaks' the soul in the first place._

_That, or a body can live without a soul._

_(How problematic that term can become...)_

_Between a fully developed 'body' that acquires every 'human' qualities but lacks a soul, and someone in vegetative state because of whatever condition but who possesses a soul nonetheless, you would be tempted to say that the former has a soul and the latter doesn't. If you knew that the 'body' was created by humans (for instance), you would maybe say that they 'developed' a soul. What about the comatose who had once been as full of life -- now resembling the victims of Dementors? I think you would say they have lost their lives, lost themselves, and in the end, that they've lost their souls (although you don't see the soul leaving the body)._

_Anyway, I think the brain has a lot of importance in someone's life._

_It IS awful indeed to see how your parents can become delirious with age... that these persons are the same that taught you so many things... How affection in the brain can transform someone into another, making the previous being disappear, just like that. Yet there is no reason that their soul was lost, hmm?_

_Besides I stick with the notion of soul in this story._

_That's why I prefer to say that there is misconception and demonization on those dark creatures the Dementors are._

_Then again, we are not here for philosophical discourse ^^'_


	3. The Wings of Victory

Each tick-tock of the clock sung another second where Snape and Nettle's connection rang stronger. The flow of the days saw Snape struggling with maintaining his patience so he wouldn't try to use the Path too soon. What if it went wrong? Nettle had informed him how they had to be sure it would be able to control his members in case the Path required a sudden movement, as counter-intuitive should it be. This superpower was supposed to be perfect, and yet, there existed this ridiculously minuscule percentage that meant the step chosen was the wrong one, in case, unbeknownst to both of them, the Path was lying. You could never be too cautious over such matters.

At first, the Professor was distraught to recognize his own voice used as Nettle's model in his head. It was as though the person giving him advice was himself – and that only reinforced the sensation of becoming demented.

He was dying inside to humiliate the werewolf further, now that he had the power to do just as he pleased. The feeling was new, and yet, there was no doubt he was finally offered what he had sought the most: doing what was right in his eyes, seeking justice by his own hands. The events of last week had testified as such. It was exhilarating. Severus couldn't help but smile beastly, if only hidden from problematic eyes, such as Dumbledore's. Indeed, it was vital not for anybody to learn about his Path. Like a true Slytherin, he considered it his secret, his treasure, his only. Was it jealousy? Was it possessiveness? Was it fear? Was it something else as well? All of that?

Besides, Snape was planning more, way more, to test the first steps of true, sweet vengeance.

He took a sip of his chicory as he manually straightened the Daily Prophet before him. He lifted it, and there, he was looking straight into the eyes of the second person he loathed the most: _SIRIUS BLACK SIGHTED!_

"But listen – I'm sure there's an explanation! Bilius – he couldn't have died just like that –"

"I told you, Ronald!" cut a girlish voice, "Either it's coincidence, or the Grim is the cause of death, not the omen!"

_Stupid girl._

Snape had acquired incredible hearing thanks to the heightened nerve connections the symbiote ensured. An ability that could very well rival to that of his dear furry colleague. As such, he was able to hear what Ms. Granger was haranguing about. Right now, he couldn't say he was pleased to discover this faculty through the pretentious, if useful Gryffindor girl.

'Best witch of her age?' Snape thought. 'My ass.'

Or really, it was that her generation was a poor one.

Severus sniffed with contempt.

The little cunt didn't understand that we didn't literally die out of fear, especially a solid man like Bilius whom Severus had known. What kind of excuse was that? Besides, if the omen was the cause of death, then it justified how it was also its prediction.

Over the hours which seemed like days to a physiologically-accelerated Snape, Nettles had perused over his brain, connecting more and more dots. He had seen it: as crazy as Trelawney seemed, she was right. Not only because of the Prophecy, but... how she predicted the death of Lavender's rabbit? How she had predicted the Grim early on, from second year? How she had been right in saying that Minerva would one day regret her interactions with a certain Muggle-Born student? How she proved to be an effective Seer by warning people about little things, such as a spoiled meal, an unfortunate letter, a terrible affliction, a broken flask? People hated her because she announced mostly bad news, in ways that made you think she was only using performative, self-fulfilling prophecies. It was as though she was carrying a curse in her words – she ought to try announcing good events one day. And yet, was she wrong in telling that everybody would die, sooner or later, because of the high risks they presented? Time was already transcribed, the threads of magic born in the future were sometimes so powerful they manifested through subtle signs. This was why Divination was known as the most imprecise branch of magic. The formulation of the predictions was not exact, you could play on words at times, but the meaning stayed clear enough.

When Severus had delivered the first part of the Prophecy, he had thought it designed an adult warrior born at the end of July years ago, with particularly combative parents, who would finally come to join the battle and had a chance at defeating the Dark Lord because this witch or wizard knew magic beyond the Dark Lord's reach. Who would have thought that the end of the Prophecy pointed at a newborn? Who would have thought, even hearing the full Prophecy, that this defenseless newborn had any more chance to defeat the most feared Dark wizard of the time than any other common newborn, than his own parents – especially as the Prophecy said that the Dark Lord could very well kill the Chosen One too? And yet the defenseless newborn had been the receptacle of his mother's sacrificial magic, and now, he was on his way to engage in war – although he was just, _just_ a child...!

Even if she hadn't heard the Prophecy, there were signs of destiny that the helpless Gryffindor girl refused to acknowledge because their definite interpretation wasn't taught through books.

Which was precisely the flaw Severus reproached.

Hermione Granger – pretentious, jealous, devoid of a critical mind, of a true capacity for reflection, believing everything that we told her as long as it was inscribed in a book, naive, immature; a girl who constantly sought the attention and, most of all, the admiration of her teachers because she loved feeling and showing how she was supposed to be superior to the others – which was not such an impressive feat in retrospect – who, behind her innocent facade, believed herself to be the best for solving a riddle worthy of a poor WOMBAT test in her first year at Hogwarts.

Oh, Severus had felt like drowning from the emotion she had reeked of after their first concrete evidence that they were brain-dead husks indeed. That sentence, "books are nothing, I have friends who are more important!" – she found pride in showing the mindset of a Gryffindor, the House she tried to embrace, but Severus had no doubt that, had Dumbledore been a Ravenclaw, she would have chosen this House instead – and there, maybe we would have seen her true colors for what they were, rather than suffering the delusion she was intrinsically good, because she belonged to the House of the Lions...

Indeed, had Granger been truly intelligent, she would have realized that considering family and friends as the most important was at once a sign of the wisdom worthy of a Ravenclaw novice, and a wrong statement because, in the end, it would mean that if we were a loner (which could happen to a lot of people for whatever reason), we would be worth nothing as individuals. Sure, for practical reasons, unity created strength, yet love was not necessarily its motive. The Mongolian Empire had once been carried by the horses of Genghis Khan's subordinates, from the Pacific Ocean to the doors of Europe, however would you think that this glory-power-thirsty Temujin man had reunited the clans of the asian steppes under the pretense of love?

Besides, her belief had been forged in the shock of finding herself alone during the first months of 1991 for acting like an insufferable self-entitled fool, concluded by the trauma of facing an easily-beaten mountain troll. Two rule-breaking boys saving her arse were needed for her to become completely dependent on them, like the useful tool she was. Weak because she feared abandonment, despised by her peers otherwise. Had she been a little more popular, smarter enough not to parade her superiority like a peacock, her same 'intelligence' would have taught her that knowledge was power, and that friends were only allies.

If, like Dumbledore, she pretended that love was the strongest power of all time as well as anybody's true goal, it was because one was manipulative and the other stupid, believing that Gryffindors could only be in the right; if power, natural phenomenon, human intelligence were inferior to love, it was because Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw were inferior to elitist Gryffindor. And yet love was only one way to reach bliss, a reason animating the world, just like our environment, rationality, power. Gryffindors were the same who thought that the opposite of love was hate, while both were the sides of a same coin based on emotion, an element necessary and yet so volatile, capable of the worst sins: crimes of passion existed for a reason, though love didn't make them any less atrocious. They were the same brain-dead idealists oblivious to the fact that the inverse of love AND hate was indifference –

It would be naive to believe that only one of the Houses was in the true when those primal tribes were wrong and right all the same, each valuing selected facets of who a human was, qualities and essential elements of our lives, along with all their flaws and misconceptions – in the end, all of these Houses were merely an incomplete reflection of a unique and blinding truth, indescribable, as inaccessible to human comprehension as trying to justify an axiom or the Rule of Rules using induction, which the Rule was meant to justify by its own existence –

There was one notion that some would call the Spirit, which the American magical school Ilvermorny tended to graze with its own unique and not-original four Houses –

And how could you hope _that_ coming from a girl who did nothing but swallow everything that was spit in her face without asking questions or debating or – or – by Merlin – harboring the genuine traits of an inventive, creative, unique, misunderstood and looked-upon genius who nonetheless held the capacity to revolutionize a whole field, specimens such as Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Merlin, Paracelsus or, if he dared admitting it, himself?

Granger resembled the impostor of true geniuses – her who craved so much to show how Muggle-Borns could be gifted themselves, she only confirmed what those pureblood inbred thought about them: as people who could only drink what the 'legitimate' and 'real' Wizards invented – which was sad since Muggles were much clever, creative and cunning that we gave them for, able to understand magic as well, no matter if they felt it differently – however, Granger had left behind this essential quality – she, daughter of rich dentists who had bathed her in love, money, superior education – no alien to how Purebloods gave their children scholar privileges – instead of being arrogant, contemptuous, a teacher's pet and narcissistic while pathetically hanging on the arm of two poor idiotic boys who, fortunately, could do well with some of her cerebral capacities because _Merlin knew how they needed them_ – she could perhaps stop acting like a snobbish posh girl and one day behave like a normal-if-gifted student.

"Severus!"

He jerked with an inaudible yelp. Suddenly the Great Hall took shape again before him. He hadn't noticed it until then: he was the only professor who hadn't touched his meal. That would be a habit to drop quickly. Dropping the subject of interest, he cocked his head to McGonagall, who asked:

"I asked you if you could give me the salt."

Awkward. Time to ask Nettles how to make her forget his mysterious blackout most effectively.

He spoke:

"It should have occurred to you that I was in the middle of deep reflection and I didn’t want anything to do with a senile widow who licks at an ex-student’s boot because she wants to satisfy her motherly need to help the sick and the poor _if_ they are a young Gryffindor male only. Spare me from your insufferable gibbering upon the bets on this year’s Quidditch House winner, the froth at your mouth is simply repulsive; we both know Slytherin will win, with at least 200 points in marge to Gryffindor and there’s nothing your privileged Potter card will be able to do about it, dear biased-Gryffindorish Headmistress of Hogwarts. If you excuse me, I have other things to attend to."

He blinked.

At the end of the unforeseen speech, even Trelawney had dropped her glass of mashed cranberries. McGonagall, Vector and Sinistra fell into a silence of incomprehension. Snape suddenly felt as though the air had been punched out of his chest.

 _I warned you_ , whispered the symbiote. _I warned you to be careful of what you wished for._

The Potions Master couldn't help but feel two crimson blotches settle on his cheekbones. He leaved without preamble.

_'Bastard.'_

He heard the same insult uttered by the revolted Head of Gryffindor House. There was a clang of the cutlery catching on the glass goblets, protests spat and hissed under the woman's breath. "What is he speaking about? What does he know? I'll show him..." Sinistra shrugged and ignored him. Meanwhile, Vector sighed: she had deduced from Snape's weird numerology that strange things were happening as they spoke.

'What an understatement that is...' thought Severus after shutting down the wide-range Legilimency.

As he swept through the corridors and the stairs of Lady Hogwarts, he asked Nettles to always choose the shortest path that bore the littlest deviation compared to the destiny that the Universe would have followed if he hadn't received the Path to Victory. This way, he would remain discreet and, by Merlin, he would speak as little as required.

"I was in a bad mood," Snape murmured softly, confident in that nobody could discover his superpower. "I admit it.'

_You were a little harsh against Ms. Granger, indeed. She might have all the flaws you pointed out, but she had true qualities as well. They shouldn't be ignored... Besides, aren't you biased against Gryffindors the same way they can become biased if, unlike Granger, they don't try to have an impartial insight of everything Hogwarts teaches them?_

He grunted gloomily. There was a Hufflepuff kissing a Slytherin in a not-so-discreet alcove. They froze as he glided by. Seeing that their severe professor didn't come at them, they quickly resumed, throwing a tapestry over their faces. Today was the first day of autumn: the sun shone through the ornamented windows. There was golden dust suspended mid-air, sprinkling the paths of the dimmed rays, disturbed only by the silent passage of the man. The light was blinding one of his eyes. The paved halls were wide, carved stone walls of the age when Hogwarts was born, old-burned with the countless days. There was only a background murmur of the children and primitive magic. The Potions Master slowed his pace until he found a whitened window to peer through. As he set his hands on the windowsill, the grass, the reddened trees, the flying leaves and the blue of the skies took shape and color. He felt the odd instinctive kick of trying to run past the Scottish hills.

His breath dampened the glass as he spoke.

"I don't want to antagonize Professor McGonagall. The years of 1981, 1982 and 1991 were enough."

_Very well._

There was a spiderweb above Severus' head. He noticed a watchful doe on the edge of the forest, followed by others: she was obviously the head of the deer hierarchy. He was not sure he liked the head of the clan.

"Say. Is a soul magical?"

The spider would have settled its long legs on the black hair if there hadn't been a bubble making it slide away. Its dusty silk was slightly blown aside.

"And if a soul is magical, does it mean Muggles are magical... or have the capacity to become so?"

 _Severus Snape_ , said the symbiote. _I feel those questions of yours won't cease for days on end. I advise you to take a book with infinite pages and prepare your wand for fast transcript of your answers._

The wizard conjured a journal from his office, skidded the virgin pages with deft fingers, laid the index over the lines. He decided to walk down the tiny stairs of the next castle entrance and through the wide paved threshold so he could sit on a wooden bench, spots of light shadowing the leaves on the white paper sheets.

 _You are very thirsty for knowledge_ , teased the brain entity. _If not for a more pragmatic perspective of its use, how do you think you are different from Ravenclaws, hm?_

ᛚᚨᛏᛖᛚᛁ ᛟᚾᛚᛁ ᚦᛟᛊᛖ ᛁ ᚲᛟᚢᛚᛞ ᚾᛟᛏ ᛊᚨᚢᛖ

Severus hadn't expected to spend the night on top of the Astronomy Tower, protected from the cold wind, drowned under myriads of questions – but so hadn't he ever expected to be handed such a fabulous power as the Path to Victory. The resolution not to use the Path too soon was quickly forgotten.

Mystery upon mystery found themselves dissected under his resolute wand hand, hundreds of answering lines magically written with a graceful flourish in a few hours only. Dumbledore would have killed to know what his subordinate was discovering under the silver-white cape of the crescent moon, the glinting hue of the ethereal stars.

Do Muggles acquire magic in the afterlife? Yes, in a sense.

Could the dead of the afterlife interact with the living? Sometimes. Could they see what was happening down on Earth? Only under specific conditions; most often, the living has to call them thanks to a corpse-whisperer. Some might act as a guardian spirit, which is a way to complete soul-healing purgatory, but they don't become omniscient like a god.

Could the victim of a Dementor be healed? No; you could only free their soul by killing the body so they could be reincarnated directly, as the afterlife would be empty for them – which again belonged to the third path of the dead. Dementors were useful in cleansing a broken soul indeed. So unless you tried to modify the victim's brain directly – which wouldn't be enough to restore the connections between the brain's event-and-thinking-related chemistry – you couldn't "heal" them from Dementors in the common way.

 _This is how you could create a perfect being for yourself_ , Nettles offered in spite of Severus' vigorous shake of the head.

Is there such a thing as Perfect Occlumency, or Extreme Occlumency, that'd allow you to cut all our ties with the world? Yes.

How to practice it, what are its consequences, risks, conditions of use?

What made a living being acquire magic? A simple dominative gene.

What was a gene? Could we give this gene to Muggles and how?

 _It is possible_ , replied the symbiote. _In a few years from now, they will discover an effective way to transfer genes from an organism to another. Just wait until they sequence the whole human genome... You can do it the Muggle way, or you can use rituals modifying the hosts' DNA. Muggles cannot produce magic, but they can become Wizards themselves._

Severus started to sweat in the prospect of the implications.

There was one question however, that was inevitable. One that the Potions Master held very dearly to his heart.

How to capture Sirius Black and have him delivered to the Dementors?

It was the period in which September died, the first Hogsmeade trip had been set on Halloween. There was a very easy answer to Severus' question.

Sirius Black would be his very first big Path-induced mistake.

ᚺᛖᛚᛚ ᛁᛊ ᛈᚨᚢᛖᛞ ᚹᛁᚦ ᚷᛟᛟᛞ ᛁᚾᛏᛖᚾᛏᛁᛟᚾᛊ

Severus waited for the big day. Potions classes and dinners in the Great Hall, a thirst for more and more knowledge, the breath-taking excitement to finally get revenge on the one who’d almost killed him at 15 and, most importantly, had betrayed the Potters, leading to _her_ death. He was not oblivious to the Headmaster's almost-imperceptible studying stare. What he didn't know, Severus thought with a vicious pull on his lips, was that everything had been set up as to prevent any of his interventions. He kept him in the dark about Lupin and Black? Very well, Severus would keep the plan for himself, and Dumbledore would stay out of it.

Nettles had informed him how he would be an annoying interference whose actual purpose would be to thwart Snape's decision if he knew about the Path.

He had been very wise to ask the Path for complete secrecy on the superpower. When Snape inevitably felt the old coot's hand try to spy on the journal's infinite pages in the dungeon's office, he knew their knowledge had been sealed away from the prying eyes.

It was unsettling how little privacy Severus was permitted under Dumbledore's wing. The traitorous spying act came as a shock.

That was why Dumbledore didn't know how letters had been prepared for Fudge, to be read at 8:53 pm precisely, so the Aurors would come to capture Black for a little Dementor soul-washing. Severus was doing Black a favor: his soul would have the opportunity to be reincarnated, not to suffer in limbo from its wreckage. The Sirius Black he'd endured would be forever gone. He would receive the punishment he had long deserved.

Severus' fists tightened resolutely.

So came Halloween.

So Lupin didn't come for his Wolfsbane.

Severus felt torn between the rage of having to bring the werewolf's medication by himself and the glee of feeling the Path taking hold of his body: his wish was on the way to be granted. He wouldn't give Lupin the opportunity to forget his Wolfsbane, he'd force a cauldronful of it down his throat if it meant the beast wouldn't endanger Hogwarts. Severus hadn't worked as a deep-cover agent protecting the students only for sweetie pie Lupin to botch his plans...

‘Not that he could counteract the Path anyway.’

He strolled past the torches of the dungeon maze, took the stairs two-steps at a time, up, up those damn staircases that wouldn't fit for a student with heart condition, leg disability or, as Nettles put it, ‘asthma’. After much calves exercise, the heavy wooden door to Lupin's office was in sight. He swiftly paced towards it. His hand froze a few inches above the door knob.

 _Not now_ , whispered Nettles.

Severus stilled his breathing, cast a Disillusionment Charm, melted in the walls and listened like the true spy he was. Soon enough he recognized the voices inside.

Potter in Lupin's office? Not good. For whatever reason, he hadn't been able to go to Hogsmeade. Why? Why hadn't his relatives signed the paper for him? Had he been this much of a trouble at home? Why hadn't the Potter offspring decided to falsify a signature? Merlin knew that Snape had begun to do just that starting fourth year – even though she had been starting to hang out with her friends only –

Severus didn't like to think about those times –

Either way it was interesting. Luckily Snape had been there on time. If Lupin started to brainwash the 13 year old boy so he could convince him to go meet 'an old friend of his', Severus would be here to remind him how wrong he was to believe this would be allowed to happen. If Lupin tried to cast a Confundo, an Imperio, any kind of manipulative or harmful magic, the Potions Master wouldn't let him. It was his duty, to protect every person he could, as he'd swore... Snape lied too much for a living not to be honest and faithful when he could.

He didn't enter right then. He waited.

"You know that day we fought the Boggart?" Potter asked.

Severus' cheekbone twitched.

"Why didn't you let me fight it?"

'Ah... Yes. A nice choice to prevent the threatened Boy-Who-Lived from learning how to fight his worst fear, aka the Dark Lord...' he added mentally, vindictive.

"I assumed that if the Boggart faced you, it would assume the shape of Lord Voldemort."

He winced at the taboo name. Lupin was teaching Potter bad habits atop of it... He'd have to correct that for the boy, else he'd one day find himself uttering the name outside Hogwarts and his blood wards, allowing the Dark Lord's minions to find him... He'd wished for Potter's protection, not imperviousness to harm. This path was too vague to ask.

"But I didn’t think it a good idea for Lord Voldemort to materialize in the staffroom. I imagined that people would panic."

"I didn’t think of Voldemort,” said Harry gravely. “I — I remembered those Dementors."

It was peculiar... how... subdued, the Potter teenager sounded. Almost coy. Not like his father much...?

"Well, well… I’m impressed."

There was a short pause.

"That suggests that what you fear most of all is — fear. Very wise, Harry."

At first it felt like an electric shock. Then anger radiated from the tip of his curling fingers. Finally, Severus couldn't decide whether to pant from fury or to throw his head back and laugh like a lunatic.

Lupin was a _certified manipulative fool_.

Of course he would choose this moment to find a reason to compliment Harry, to soften him up.

Dementors loved people's fear since panic prevented them from thinking happy things; Dementors left behind somebody shook to the core if they hadn't kissed them wholly; but never being afraid of a Dementor meant being afraid of fear. A Dementor was bad memories – including fear, but also shame, pain and grief – it was depression and – eventually – emptiness. Fear was the Boggart. To be afraid of your Boggart was to be afraid... of what you were afraid of... of what took the shape and place of your fear.

Being afraid of a Dementor was being afraid of negative thoughts generally-speaking, but most importantly, of being kissed to death by a quasi-invincible phantom literally rotting from dark, truly evil magic.

And here was Lupin's "you are afraid of fear".

Here was a demonstration of what differentiated an Expert in the Dark Arts from a mere Auror on duty. A teacher with high expectations that required exactitude, and another who, he'd learned, bought the affection of his students by giving them cheap good grades - there would be no surprise if they didn't even pass the OWLs at this rate.

A pitiful education.

Clearly there was no other explanation... Lupin was trying to buy Potter's sympathy... Severus knew that there was something not entirely agreeing on the back of his mind, something that would annoy him if he let it loose... but he was decided, he could not allow himself to think otherwise: Lupin was a danger and here was the proof.

"So you’ve been thinking that I didn’t believe you capable of fighting the Boggart?" said Lupin shrewdly.

"We... yeah," said Potter in a more lively tone. "Professor Lupin, you know the Dementors..."

Severus' ear was unconsciously glued to the door.

"When the Dementors get near me, I hear a voice... The voice of a woman. Do you get that too? Do you know who this is?"

The voice of a wo – ?

Apparently, Lupin was as distraught as Snape was.

"No..." the werewolf answered. "No I don't."

"So it's not normal?"

"I think there is no 'normal' way to face a Dementor..."

Severus was aware of the two continuing their discussion, but by the time Nettles answered whose voice it was that Potter heard, he found himself not caring at all.

Severus' eyes could not get any wider.

His lips slowly parted in shock.

_No._

He didn't want to think it was true. He didn't want to think that Potter was – had seen – so young – that what he feared was –

He shouldn't have asked in the first place. But he found himself unwilling to try and forget this information either.

His... mother's voice.

Potter... wasn't afraid of Dementors by themselves... not truly. Yes, they were hideous, yes they were repulsive, any human body correctly built would scream to run away in a Dementor's vicinity – even Muggles felt their heavy freezing presence.

It was not that much because they quite literally sucked out people's happiness – or more exactly, sucked someone's persona until they were made blank... Yes everything was clear.

Potter was afraid of Dementors because he was afraid of affronting the memories of his mother's d-death.

It explained a lot. How Potter was so resilient, fear and pain insensitive when facing danger, how he risked his life over and over, impulsively taunting death... After being threatened to be killed by a Professor, having killed him by his own hands, after slaying a Basilisk and facing his worst fear, and surely more – Severus hadn't caught the littlest shed of tear. Neither Lady Hogwarts nor Blood Protection was the actors of his mental sufficiency.

His dissociation of trauma through amnesia did.

Potter... may be... sick.

When you witnessed your parent's murder in your tender youth, and when your mind buried this even far too deep for him to consciously recall, unless a Dementor brought forth the amnesic fog so you could remember for a little time what remained behind... what could you be afraid of, other than having this most personal realm breached through?

How not to be afraid of Dementors when they called what your psyche viscerally refused to recall?

And on the other hand, how not to be afraid of a memory you hadn't understood nor affronted until then?

 _Harry Potter_ , added Nettles, _could only remember his parents' murder through nightmares of a maniac laughter and a green light._

Like Granger who didn't fear Professor McGonagall as much as failing school, because her most urgent fear was to have bad grades, a Boggart she hadn't yet fought; like Longbottom who quaked under an authoritarian Severus because everytime he had failed to show magic he had been harmed or threatened to death by his family until then, who lost control in Potions because the very first lesson involved him moaning in pain as he was sent to the Infirmary, and because, Nettles insisted, Severus was being way too rude as well – Potter didn't fear so much the Dementors for what they were, than what they aroused in him: helplessness, fear, horror, sorrow, loneliness.

And if Lupin was afraid of Dementors because they left him with memories he repulsed – surely his transformation into a monstrous werewolf – then we could understand how he'd taught something so inexact about being afraid of fear, and yet which corresponded, at least partly, to Potter's situation.

Potter's psyche didn't like to lose control like that.

For Severus, the reflex against the Dementors' influence was clear: as soon as negative thoughts infiltrated his brain, his mind would shut down, he would lock away his emotions and turmoil. He'd spent too much time tormented by his own demons, his personal dementors, and finally he'd succeeded at relaxing, emptying his mind, devoid of thinking, devoid of any opinion on anything, scrambling any idea that could lead him to depression.

Potter didn't know yet how to do that, the emotionally-driven Gryffindor – how could he when Severus hadn't been able to control his own anger as a teenager, like a savage kid? From what he'd deduced at spying on Potter and Lupin's exchange, the werewolf was, on the contrary, leading him to think about something happy. Something not tainted by nostalgia, sorrow, regret or disgust, not like Severus who was finding his brightest joy in the darkest moments of his life... Potter wouldn't be able to master Occlumency. It was a spiritual art like a Patronus, but too mental for a brainless Gryffindor like him. If one day he became so mature he was able to master it, then maybe... But first he'd have to grow up and replace his nerves with somebody else's that what Potter Sr. had given him.

It didn't matter anyway. Since Severus was going to find the hole in which the Dark Clown had hidden and blast him in tinier pieces than the repelled Avada had ever done, why would Potter ever need to learn Occlumency? He'd have to deal with his issues by himself, with the advantage, unlike Snape, of receiving the help of loyal friends.

He was brought back to the present when he noticed the office falling into silence. His ears almost perked up: it was the moment to enter the classroom and knock. He entered.

"Ah, Severus," said Lupin, smiling like the Potions Master hated. "Thanks very much. Could you leave it here on the desk for me?"

'I don't need your permission, Lupin,' he replied mentally.

"I was just showing Harry my Grindylow."

Lies.

"You should drink that directly Lupin."

"Yes, yes I will."

"Now," he hissed vehemently, and this time Severus didn't give him the pleasure of exiting the room.

The Grindylow narrowed its eyes at the electric scene that was playing before him. Harry Potter was eyeing Snape suspiciously, uncomfortable amidst the tension, caught between the two teachers; Lupin's features showed he was slightly confused, taken aback by the hostile reaction. And Snape?

'I won't be afraid... You can't do anything against me anymore if I want, werewolf... One step out of line... and you'll suffer my retribution...'

He arched an eyebrow at Lupin, indicating the goblet with a tiny jerk.

"Is it a problem with your bowel? Are you worried it will upset your tummy? Surely you drank more disgusting liquids in your life..."

"Thank you Severus, you can leave."

"Is that an order?"

The classroom fell into an awkward silence again.

"You better watch out..." Severus murmured nastily. "You should have come by yourself to my office. Next time you try to make me bring the potion for your own – illness – you will be very disappointed... Forget only once, and you might find yourself in a precarious situation again."

"Is that a threat?" he said pleasantly and the werewolf's amber eyes ignited.

"A warning for your best interest," replied Snape. His lips curled in an awful sneer. "Well, enjoy the feast of the monsters tonight. I mean Samain."

He turned his back on the current Professor of Defense as though he was leaving.

"Yes, you too enjoy the costumes of the ugly witches on the streets."

"I don't live in the streets Lupin."

"Yeah, neither do I."

"Not anymore... Granted you drink that potion before it's too late."

That was mean and petty.

He closed the door behind him.

Snape thrived from it.

This time, he wasn't the one mocked for his poverty.

And although he hated how he'd been tormented even in his adult life, he had an image of how karma was sometimes sweet: Black had been imprisoned for murder, a traitor from the Slytherin House of Black, as the true Death Eater despite how he'd accused Snape of being one – Lupin had been rejected by those who realized he was a werewolf underneath his facade of kindness, sugar-coating his pleasant words with lies – Pettigrew had been killed for his stupidity at following the wrong people, and Potter was dead before he received the credit of being the father of a 'hero'. As if Snape's justified loathing had cursed them all. The only problem was that they had dragged _her_ into their messy affair... She had died, and she was, wrongfully, only second-plan to her son's success, despite how she was the reason he became the Boy-Who-Lived... For the Wizarding World, she was only the image of the perfect mother who would sacrifice herself for her son, and while it was a proof of a mother's noble love...

She deserved better.

Severus knew he was too dirty for her anyway... He was nothing... No. She deserved somebody better than them all – she deserved the world, despite the way Severus' own filth tried to protest that she had done more than mistakes, it wasn't her fault –

The Path made him think too much about Lily Potter.

 _Severus_ , whispered the symbiote, and he shook his intrusive thoughts away. _Sirius Black is coming tonight... Be ready. In a few hours, the Path will show its power._

Severus was glad of it.

ᚠᚱᛁᛖᚾᛞᛊ ᛊᚺᛟᚢᛚᛞ ᚾᛟᛏ ᛞᛖᛗᚨᚾᛞ ᛒᛚᛁᚾᛞ ᚠᚨᛁᚦ

Oh, what a sweet night that was. Christmas had come early.

Snape was positively shivering with anticipated pleasure.

On the way to the feast, Snape had met student heads caked in an endearing Melofors. For once he didn't punish the jinx if he heard laughter under the pumpkin smile. The youngest were bringing insane amounts of candies, and they were lucky a wizard's body didn't necessarily require the use of Muggle toothpaste (plant mixtures would do). The eldest were showing off with their girlfriends (who giggled or seemed uncomfortable) or their boyfriends (who felt uneasy or started to flirt), most of them reeking of Rosemerta's alcohol.

The halls were full of feet and babbling, excited, lively, almost overbearing.

The moment Snape entered the Great Hall through the side door of Hogwarts' Entrance, he was sort of crushed under the heavy damp heat of hundreds of students eating warm dinners, under the flames carried by myriads of melting candles and wicked jack-o-lanterns. There were bats and ghosts flying among the crowded tables, which were bending under the overflowing disgusting meals. There was spicy grease on the pupils' fingers, sweat under Snape's armpits and on his brow, an air that was getting more and more oppressive by the minute. The feast was too loud and too messy and too orange-yellow-bright, not even the pink clouds of an afternoon's end spread on the castle's ceiling could persuade the Potions Master that the room was not more confined than his own lab when brewing a difficult potion.

At least in his dungeons he could be happy that he was left alone.

He took his usual seat at the right end of the Head Table, next to Aurora Sinistra.

It was 6:16 when he started to eat. He couldn't wait for the Path to manifest its power. Aurora engaged an enjoyable conversation with him.

Aurora Sinistra was a young witch who would have gladly fit in Slytherin House. She was however a graduate from the magical school Uagadou, hidden in the Mountains of the Moon in western Uganda, east-central Africa. The biggest magical school of the world wasn't as spoken of as Hogwarts among the north countries, only because the mages of the north lived secluded, and what did Uagadan people have to prove? They were among the best in Alchemy, Transfiguration and Astronomy. To be clear: Sinstra didn't need a wand like the others, and it made many people envious. They were great at Potions and put European Animagi to shame with their high number of students who could transform into cheetahs or elephants. The International Symposium of Animagi that was said to be institutionalized would make it clear how they were the best.

Sinistra, who became a fine Professor of Astronomy, was witty, funny, charming and had nothing to prove to others. She was confident and, frankly, Severus liked her. Him who was curious about Astronomy as well, making it a hobby sometimes, he had learned many useful tips from the woman. He wondered what was her Animagus form, her who must have developed one...

Severus had already achieved the task of becoming an Animagus, although he didn't use it a lot, and nobody but Dumbledore knew about it. He felt quite fragile as a spider, and unless he used a Swelling Potion – a potion he didn't wish that much to teach to hormonal 13 year-old teenagers with complexes by the way – he didn't need it. They said that becoming an Animagus was a feat... _what a joke_.

The instructions were pretty simple: from one full moon to another, you had to hold a Mandrake leaf in your mouth without removing or swallowing it. Then you had to spit the leaf in a phial within the range of the moon's rays, to which you added one of your hair, a silver teaspoon of dew that has not seen sunlight or been touched by human feet for seven days, and the chrysalis of a Death's-head Hawk Moth. After securing the phial in a quiet and dark place never to be disturbed, you had to wait for an electrical storm, as at the rise and fall of the sun, you had to recite, a wand on the heart: "Amato animo animato animagus." When lightning struck the concoction would turn red: it was time to utter the incantation one last time before drinking your spit.

The feeling of two hearts beating at the same time, tailed by the painful first transformation, had been a curious experience that Severus wouldn't forget.

Becoming an Animagus seemed to require incredible patience and diligence, a lot of skill...

Severus sprinkled his mug of butterbear with bits of speculoos. He drank the thick liquid, crushing the biscuits on the way, in a disdainful curl of lips.

There wasn't any potion skill required: you just had to spit in a phial then add three other ingredients. The potion was primitive, it didn't require precise dicing or cutting or boiling or stirring; it didn't even require a cauldron! You just dropped the ingredients one after the other, it was as simple as that.

There was the problem of acquiring the silver teaspoon of dew that hadn't been disturbed for at least seven days. If you lived in the countryside, near a forest, you could easily gather that ingredient. What about the potential human who walked by? You casted repelling wards around the section.

And then the rare, expensive ingredients, which Severus had been able to acquire only through the help of the Malfoys. It wasn't as if he had grown with a silver spoon in the mouth, not even figuratively, but he had managed with the appropriate connections.

And then you had to wait for an electrical storm.

At this point, you could recite the Animagus incantation for weeks or months, in the eventuality you were dumb enough to start the process in winter rather than in summer. You could put all your heart into praying that next time would be the right, wishing you possessed some sheer-dumb luck after all.

... _Ooooor_ you could remember that you were a mage who could literally control the fucking weather.

This applied to the same possibility that the full moon during which you spat the Mandrake leaf was hidden: you could scatter the clouds apart.

What about the tongue-tied incantation? Considering you used the spell that conjured an electrical storm soon after preparing the phial, meaning you would have to say it only once or twice, you had to know that failing to pronounce it wouldn't do anything. It was like a failed Leviosa: if you mispronounced it, you didn't get payback, the spell just wouldn't work. It was binary: get it right, and you pass; get it wrong, try again. You could almost just read it out loud. A clumsy imbecile Gryffindor could do it. The incantation, which involved the realms of both Charms and Transfiguration, didn't require any certain level of inner power from the aspirant. It just required you to be magical.

And so what was left? Holding the Mandrake leaf in your mouth for a month, which could be annoying and which prevented you to hide that you were trying to turn Animagus.

A sticking charm between the lips and the gingiva did the job.

The ritual was as easy as that, given you were cunning enough. The legend said it was extraordinary difficult and risky only to discourage the stupid ones from attempting the transformation.

Severus finished swallowing his bittersweet butterbear, licking his lips clean of the foam.

What was unnerving was how well guarded the secret of becoming one was. If the theory of recognizing an Animagus' characteristics was covered during Third Year, the method of becoming one wasn't taught, since you couldn't risk any more teenagers trying it – especially considering they would try to keep it secret. There were already a lot of people sent to St Mungo's for failed De-Aging Potions, spoilt Felix Felicises and botched Polyjuices. The risk was there. One mistake and you became a mutant hybrid. Only an influential pureblood could hold the knowledge in their ancestral bookshelves. People like the Malfoys for instance.

Severus was curious as to who was the lunatic who became the first Animagus ever. How had they known? How had they discovered such random steps? It wasn't just that they were precise and, maybe, symbolic. It was just that there didn't seem to be any way to even guess them. The technique had been discovered by someone who spoke Latin, and the first Animagus ever recorded was Falco Aesalon, an Ancient Greek wizard able to transform into a falcon. So unless there was a more difficult version of the ritual that had indeed required tough skills in Potions and Transfiguration, a ritual with more logical steps and from which someone developed a convoluted but more accessible one, he didn't have much idea.

 _Witches and wizards put more trust in instinct and imprecise magic in the old times, thus the success of many seers like the Oracle_ , answered the symbiote in his head. _People could also ask for the knowledge of other species, such as the Centaurs, the Vampires, the Elves and the Goblins... and then claim, when humans finally submitted everyone, that they were the inventors. The Centaurs were the first who asked the magic of the cosmos to help a friendly and naive human._

'Typical.'

Severus was growing anxious and impatient. He almost wondered whether it was a joke from Nettles, or if the Path was failing. And yet, finally...

It was 7:32 when the true fun began.

Popping one last butterscotch in his mouth, Severus apologized, raised from his seat, leaving the Great Hall in a flurry of robes.

His feet carried him in the huge staircase of Hogwarts until he hid in a shadowed alcove near the one bearing the portrait of the Fat Lady, who provided the entrance to the Gryffindor Tower.

'What are we doing here?' asked Snape.

_Waiting for Sirius Black to come._

'Ah... He will try to enter the Gryffindor Tower, isn't that right?'

_That's it._

'And since he doesn't have the password... he will try to force his way in?'

_Yes._

'Is he armed?'

_He doesn't have a wand, but he carries a magical knife that can open doors._

Severus wasn't surprised.

'And when will he arrive?'

_He's here._

There was a 'click-click-click' sound on the stone floor. He saw a black figure walking to the portrait, but it was four-legged. It was a bearsized beast. Severus had the flicking image of Sirius Black running the country like an animal before he understood that he was an Animagus. An illegal dog Animagus. Fitting... Black mutated back into his human form.

Severus rejoiced in the sight.

Pathetic. It was simply pathetic. The Gryffindor son of the royal House of Black, once parading his oh-so masculine handsomeness while flirting with the general feminine gent, now had disgusting long hair, smelly torn rags, wasted muscles, a ravaged profile. There was a mad glint in his eyes, and when he spoke to the frightened Fat Lady, his teeth were yellowed with rot. His voice was animalistic, the savage bark of a stray dog.

_Served him good._

"What a pleasure to see you again Black."

The dog jumped three feet off the ground. Black's face turned to see who had spoken. His eyes widened when he recognized the Professor. He talked but no sound came out. His lips been sealed shut, leaving a dirty expanse of skin surrounded by a messy beard instead of the mouth. Black was taken aback, however he regained his composure by sending Snape a dirty glare. The Potions Master only grinned hatefully.

"Have you enjoyed the feast well? Surely there were kind souls who gave you candies in the streets. Or did you dig in the trash like the filthy dog you are?"

When Black attempted to tackle him, he tripped and lay at his feet. He couldn't get up.

"Professor Snape!" cried the Fat Lady.

"Do not worry... I shall take this matter in hand." Snape ran a boot over Black's hair – stomped on it, forcing his head to the side.

"That was an ingenious idea... Came to finish the job exactly twelve years after you killed your friends... on the night of Halloween... Your mother would have been proud."

Severus crouched, tugging Black's hair painfully under his leather boot. The Death Eater may have the glint of a madman, but Severus, an ex-Death Eater who hadn't been caught, was the maddest of the two. He approached Black's face, looking at him straight in the eyes, and ignoring the stench of the escapee, he bared his crooked teeth in a savage grin. He looked deranged, demonic.

"Vengeance is very sweet..." he breathed “How I hoped I would be the one to catch you..."

Severus' heart was beating a thousand miles per hour. His hands were clammy and shaking with adrenaline, he was breathless, and he would have thought it to be excitement if he hadn't felt a nauseating knot in his stomach. Black was there, Black was under him, this time, finally, he truly was at his mercy – the Path protected Snape, Snape was to trust it – and it didn't matter if Black was enormous, taller and bigger than Snape would ever grow to be, it didn't matter if once upon a time, standing six-feet tall he'd taunted and tormented him thanks to the privilege the royal Black genes conferred him – _Snivellus_ had the upper hand –

"Professor," called the Fat Lady, "should I warn the Headmaster?"

"No, leave it to me... I will warn him myself. I can handle this, don't you see? But if you wish to depart, go."

She left. Hidden away from the Fat Lady, Snape choked.

"Let's call the Dementors, shall we? They’ll be very pleased to see you, Black... pleased enough to give you a little kiss, I daresay..."

Black's face turned livid. He started to struggle, protesting in a series of groans that Severus fanatically savoured.

"Oh – you don't agree? Maybe you're right. I should take pleasure from the opportunity, hmm?"

The Potions teacher wasn't in his right mind. However at this moment, he caught the meaning of his words.

He could torture Black.

He could, in fact, do anything he wanted to him. The Path allowed him that.

It was sexy.

But...

_But Lily._

Lily... even if Black had brought her death... even if Black had betrayed her, Voldemort's spy all along...

Would she want him to torture Black?

Even if she had been quite... quite vengeful, sometimes, despite how she had protested against them before – even if she may have approved of how the M-M – the M-Marauders had harassed him...

Surely she wouldn't approve of that.

She was in the right provided she knew the truth – and she was also pure...

He couldn't – he –

She wouldn't have wanted him to act like a Death Eater. Severus could give her that. He would. Controlling the Path. So he wouldn't torture Black... yes... Besides, the Dementors had avenged Snape's wish of painful retribution under the form of slow torture...

And yet that didn't mean he wouldn't make him personally pay.

A trail of saliva hung from his lips and slowly, slowly landed, glistering, on Sirius Black's eye. Severus spat the rest.

"Let's go."

ᚹᚺᛟ ᛁᛊ ᚦᛖ ᛗᛟᚾᛊᛏᛖᚱ ᚨᚾᛞ ᚹᚺᛟ ᛁᛊ ᚦᛖ ᛗᚨᚾ

There was a vivid clamor in Hogsmeade.

"There he is! It's Sirius Black!"

The villagers pointed their fingers towards the figure that hung high above their heads, like Snape's prize, like the clown of a carnival. The sun had sent its last blood rays on the sky, leaving its place to the gibbous silver moon and its procession of stars. The warm lanterns had been lit for the glorious sight. A crowd was forming in a circle around the Professor of Hogwarts. They stared, they spied, they pushed through the masses to see them both. Was it really Sirius Black? Who had caught him? Severus Snape, Dumbledore's Potions Master? Yes, there they were – it was really them. Severus ignored the calls, the men and women who tried to get his attention, warding off any person who attempted to steal the Azkaban escapee or worse, tried to free him. He needn't wait long however... Several cracks took the villagers by surprise, signaling the arrival of the Aurors. Protected among them, was the Minister, Cornelius Fudge. He gaped when he saw the convicted criminal restrained by the professor in black robes.

"Snape!"

"Minister," he greeted, bowing his head slightly.

"Unbelievable... It's finally him – Sirius Black?"

"Of course, Minister... I wouldn't have bothered you otherwise."

"But... H-How?"

Severus peered up at the struggling form. He was trying harder to shout past a mouth that had been sealed magically.

"I found him attempting to enter the Gryffindor common room, a knife in his pocket. Surely he wanted to finish the job and take Potter by surprise... He hadn't known it was Halloween, and so by chance, the students were still in the Great Hall dining... I managed to neutralize him, Minister. He's harmless now."

"Well, as harmless as _Sirius Black_ can be..."

As the Aurors were forming a barrier against the crowd, the flash of a lightbulb blinded Severus. There was a reporter here, a blond woman with manly features – Rita Skeeter.

"We owe you greatly Professor. I was worried this – this murderer would run the lands any longer, it is a miracle he hasn't killed anyone yet, not even Muggles..."

"He is not in his right mind anymore... I'd wager he was in a hurry to kill Potter first and foremost."

"We are lucky you were there..."

"Mister!" called the journalist. "Do you mean that Sirius Black was able to enter Hogwarts?!" There were several gasps. "How can we be sure that anybody holding a vendetta against Harry Potter or his friends won't be able to breach the securities?"

"The fact that one of them is hanging before you, waiting to be executed."

"Oh yes!" added the Minister. "I almost forgot – let's do it as quickly as possible... We want to solve this matter before something unexpected happens..." He addressed the Aurors: "Call a Dementor!"

Black let out a hysterical roar. While people recoiled, the Potions Master merely smiled.

"This is what you get for everything you've done," he murmured. But mostly, it was the sentence reserved for convicted serial killers. Legal, and fair. One more menace neutralized.

"You did a great service to the Wizarding World, Professor Snape," Fudge claimed as frost appeared on the paved streets not so far away. "I believe this deserves an Order of Merlin Second – No! – First Class!"

Severus felt a burst of pride inside.

"Thank you very much Minister."

"It is only natural for somebody who arrested Sirius Black, protected the students of Hogwarts – somebody who saved Harry Potter's life, avenged his parents and the Pettigrews!"

Some whistles were heard.

The crowd parted as the dark-rotting figure in rags glided in their direction. Severus Occluded naturally. Black's cries became more desperate. Yet suddenly, Hogsmeade hollered against him. They insulted him, they wished him to suffer in hell, they spat at him (although it didn't reach his face), they tried to curse him despite the Aurors. Many photos were taken.

"Filthy Death Eater!"

Revenge was a dish best served cold.

Severus stepped to the side and lowered Black to the ground, forcing him on his knees. He watched the haunted face. It was rare to see Sirius Black so scared. It might have been the first time in Severus' life. The murderer sought for his eyes, pleading and terrified.

'Please don't!' he cried. 'You don't understand, Snape! I'm innocent – the rat! It's the rat! I haven't done anything –'

Severus sneered.

_'I want to see you die... I want to see the light leave your eyes.'_

The condemned man was shadowed by the freezing Dementor. The dark creature lifted a putrefied hand and cupped Black's cheek, forcing him to face its head. Black's eyes searched for Severus still.

Memories flickered before them.

The Professor jerked away the arm that wanted to pull him aside.

The Dementor lifted its hood – how horrendous its gaping hole was, the foul spine it was mounted on – it bent as if for a kiss... Fangs pierced the patch of skin where Black's mouth had been. Like a Vampire, the Dementor started to suck the life out of him. His gaze became unfocused, washed blank.

The last thing Black knew of was the baby form of Harry Potter and the dead face of his father.

He crumpled to the floor in a dead heap. Sirius Black... was no more.

_'I did it Lily... I avenged you. Your son is safe in my hands.'_

In his elation, Snape felt as if he had sprouted wings. The Wings of Victory.

ᛏᚺᛖ ᛟᚹᛚ ᛟᚠ ᛗᛁᚾᛖᚱᚢᚨ ᛊᛈᚱᛖᚨᛞᛊ ᛁᛏᛊ ᚹᛁᛜᛊ ᛟᚾᛚᛁ ᚹᛁᚦ ᚦᛖ ᚠᚨᛚᛚᛁᛜ ᛟᚠ ᚦᛖ ᛞᚢᛊᚲ

Although exhausted from his encounter with the murderer, he had never slept so well. At least the daily nightmares – those where Black was sending him to the Shack, those where the monstrous werewolf was mauling and eating him alive in excruciating pain, a dark tunnel that narrowed until he was trapped and howling in vain – they were replaced by the slightly disturbing ones of a Dementor and a desperate Black who forever lost his life.

Sometimes he dreamed of icky bloodied hands.

The news of Sirius Black's sentence travelled the Wizarding radio, but it was only in the morning, as the Great Hall was showered with papers of the Daily Prophet, that he felt a hand laying on his shoulder.

"Well done, Professor Snape,' said McGonagall sternly, "but I maintain that the Dementor was unnecessary... Surely he could have gone back to Azkaban instead –"

"And escape again. The use of Dementors might have been passed, but I found him with a knife and I wasn't going to let a serial killer on the loose. Besides, it was the Minister's decision... Do not blame me for doing my job."

McGonagall sighed. She was ignored.

'Why aren't I congratulated by the school?' asked Snape in mid-breakfast. It was not that he valued glory that much but... Surely he deserved more recognition.

_You've asked to deviate as little as possible from a path where you didn't use your power... Is that what you wish then?_

Severus nodded mentally. The next thing he knew, he was looking at his left. The werewolf didn't seem like eating his meal. Severus stared at him until he lifted his head. And then he smiled.

"You must be glad – I have finally gotten rid of the traitor who killed your friends."

"Yes, well," Lupin replied in a laugh that was harder to fake, but Severus interrupted.

"You don't have to thank me. I know it would have been hard for you to meet a best friend who'd betrayed you so deeply. You needn't worry anymore that he'd make you the next on the list after Harry Potter."

"Ah, er – yes..."

"Still feeling a little sick?" he added. "Don't forget your potion tonight..."

"I won't" replied the werewolf, who seemed ready to keel over.

There was somebody looking at him from the students' tables. Upon glancing there, he recognized Draco Malfoy. The blond boy narrowed his eyes and cocked his head questioningly. A gentle probe of Legilimency showed him that he was wondering why his Head of House, a silent supporter of the Dark Lord, had turned the Death Eater to justice... Of course. It was logical. The children of Death Eaters had found the news of Black's escapade a good one. It would mean that their Dark Lord – if they were still loyal – would be avenged. It would mean that they wouldn't be threatened later by a Potter who escalated the hierarchy and took his rightful place as one of the most influential of the Wizarding World.

Severus would have to change that, when he restored Slytherin House's reputation. He'd have to have a talk with the Sorting Hat. And when Voldemort was defeated, Snape would track the Death Eaters... either sending them to Azkaban or, if they were still parents of Slytherins, convince them to forget their convictions... Maybe Snape could try to make them consider him their new Dark Lord? In this case, Severus would request them to change...

Ah... But he knew those were mere fantasies. In reality, things were much more complicated than that. Fortunately, the Path was there.

Speaking of Potter, the boy was looking at him, confusion visible on his lines.

_He executed my godfather, who'd betrayed my parents... He avenged them… But he hates me, and he hates my father... Why did he do it?_

But among all those stares – the students, the professors, the owls, there was one that was sending him chills down his spine. Severus didn't need to look to know who was glaring at him.

It was the disappointed eye of Albus Dumbledore.

**Author's Note:**

> The Path to Victory here is different than Contessa's, so as to fit my view of the Harry Potter Universe. There is a lot of character bashing, but only because I find it coherent from Snape's point of view. I have the idea to split the ending into two paths: a slightly sad 'good ending', and a dangerously satisfying 'bad ending'. It is quite difficult to know what Snape would think and do, as the ambiguous, grey character he is, and exploring the two possibilities seems interesting to me. You will be able to find the ending chapters in the series I created for this alternate universe.  
> The backbone of the story is already written, so it will help me to write regularly (although it is a very difficult work on my part). I do think there will be 6 chapters for the main part of the story.  
> The story will be corrected as the chapters progress.


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